THE  TOWER 


WITH    LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS 


BY 

EMMA   HUNTINGTON   NASON 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
(fflbe  fitoetft&e  $re£ 
1895 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  EMMA  HUNTINGTON  NASON. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


/I/27 

/*ZT 

/HAM/ 


DEDICATED   TO  C.   H.   N. 


359312 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TOWER  .       .       .       .       .               .       .  I 

BODY  AND  SOUL        ......  8 

Two  FACES    .        .        .        .               .               .  12 

SHOES  OF  ALABASTER       .        .        .  16 

THE  FIRST  GREEK  PORTRAIT  18 

A  GHOST 21 

THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS       .        .  24 

SLUMBER  SONG  .......  26 

WINDS  OF  THE  NORTH        .       .       .       .       .30 

A  MIRACLE 32 

HADST  THOU  BUT  TURNED        .-      .-      .       .  35 

THE  CASTLE  OF  SONG      .....  39 

AT  VESPERS   .       .    -    .       .       .       .       .       .  44 

UNTER  DEN  LINDEN         .       .       .       .       .  47 

LAVINIA  .       .       .•      .       .'.'..       .  50 

BALLAD  OF  THE  BLITHE  QUARTETTE     .       .  53 

MY  LADY  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE      .       .    :    .       .  55 

WILD  VIOLETS  .......  58 

JUNE .       .  59 

JULY    ...       .       .       .       .       .       .  60 

AUGUST  .       .  .       .       .       .       .       .61 

A  ROSE  IN  AUTUMN 62 

TRANSMIGRATION  . 63 

A  MOUNTAIN  HERITAGE                         ,  65 

GOLDENROD      .           .           .           .          .           .           .           .  69 

SONG  OF  THE  JENNIE 71 

ENSHRINED 73 

SPOKEN  AT  SEA 75 


vi  Contents 

THE  BATTLE-SONG        ....       .       .        -76 

PROPHET  AND  POET  .        .        .        .       .       .  80 

GLENDARE      .  • 96 

THE  PHANTOM  FLAG        .        .       ...  99 

WRECKED       .       .       .       .       .       .       .        .  102 

NOT  DEAD  BUT  SLEEPING        .    -,.       .        .  105 

AFTER  THE  VICTORY    .       .       .       .        .        .  107 

MERCEDES  .        .        .        .....        .  108 

THE  MEED  OF  GENIUS         ..      ..      .     •  •        .  no 

SIMON  OF  CYRENE     .        .        .        .       .  in 

A  CHILD'S  QUESTION   .        .       .       .       .        .112 

DOLOROSA 114 

HALLOWELL  BELLS 115 

BE  MERCIFUL  TO  ME 117 

CHRISTMAS  ROSES 119 

THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT    .        .        .        .        .  121 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD  ." 122 

AVE  ET  VALE 126 

MlGNON 128 

BECALMED 130 

WILL  IT  BE  THUS?       ..      .       ..      .       .       -133 

NOCTURNE  ...        .        .        .....  134 

NOVEMBER  SUNSHINE  .       ...      .....       .  135 

ONCE  AND  AGAIN      .       .       .       .       .       .  137 

ATTAINMENT  .       .       .       ,       .      ..       .       .139 


THE  TOWER 

I  AM  the  tower  of  Belus  —  the  tower  of  old 
am  I! 

Under  the  rifting  lines  of  the  gloaming's  trem 
ulant  sky, 

Under  the  shifting  signs  of  the  ages  circling  by, 

I  stand  in  the  might  of  the  mighty  —  the  tower 
of  Belus,  I ! 

Who  are  these  at  my  feet  like  pygmies  scorched 
in  the  sun  ? 

Who,  but  the  petty  hordes  of  a  race  that  has 
just  begun  ? 

It  matters  little  to  me  whether  prince  or  Bed 
ouin  stand, 

Or  the  lizard  creep  at  my  feet,  or  the  jackal 
up  from  the  sand  ! 

What  does  the  time-bound  traveler  know  of  the 
dim  by-gone  ? 

What  can  he  tell  of  the  glory  that  died  with 
the  world's  bright  dawn, 

More  than  the  son  of  the  desert?  the  slim, 
green  creeping  things  ? 


4  *  The  Tower 

The  night-owl,  fast  in  his  crevice  ?  the  bat,  with 
his  ghostly  wings  ? 

Each  in  his  own  way  imagines  the  past  and  the 
yet-to-be ; 

Each  to  himself  is  greatest ;  equal  alike  to  me  ! 

I  am  the  tower  of  Belus  j  ages  unnumbered  are 
mine; 

Mightier  I  than  the  gods  who  dreamed  them 
selves  divine ! 

Is  this  the  grandest  of  rivers  that  rolled  like  a 
king  to  the  sea, 

Crying,  "  I  am  the  great  Euphrates !  bring  all 
your  tithes  unto  me  "  ? 

How  the  ships  with  their  treasured  freight  went 
down  to  their  rocky  bed  ! 

Are  there  ghouls,  insatiate  still,  with  grinning 
mouths  to  be  fed, 

That  you  burst  your  stony  embankments,  rav 
aging  meadow  and  fen, 

Making  drearier  drear  desolation,  in  scorn  for 
the  arts  of  men  ? 

Ah  !  Babylonia,  where  —  ah  !  where  is  thy  fruit 
ful  plain, 

Spreading  sea-like  unto  the  ocean  its  billowy 
fields  of  grain  ? 


The  Tower  3 

Where  now  is  the  mighty  city,  secure  with  its 

brazen  gates, 

And  walls  on  whose  towering  fastness  the  Assy 
rian  warrior  waits, 
His  milk-white  steeds  in  war-gear,  his  blazoned 

flags  unfurled, 
Hurling  with  grim  defiance  his  challenge  out 

to  the  world  ? 
Where  are  the  toiling  millions  who  wrought, 

with  their  cunning  skill, 
Sweet  dreams  of  a  fair  ideal,  in  forms  that  were 

fairer  still  ? 
Oh,   Babylon's   looms   are   silent ;    in  silence 

dead  are  the  plains  ; 
And  dead   are  city  and   soldier;    the   tower 

alone  remains. 

I  am  the  tower  of  Belus  !  I  stand  in  the  grasp 
of  fate ! 

I,  and  proud  Babylon's  princess ;  together  we 
watch  and  wait, 

She  for  her  lover's  returning;  I  for  oblivion's 
knell; 

And  which  with  the  greater  longing,  the  heav 
ens  alone  can  tell. 

Is  there  any  joy  in  existence  void  of  hope  or 
of  fears, 


4  The  Tower 

In  painless,  slow  dissolution  through  thousands 

of  weary  years  ? 
Or  rest  for  the  ghost  of  the  maiden  that  alike 

in  life  and  in  death, 
While  years  into  centuries  ripen,  and  centuries 

wane,  keeps  faith  ? 
She  counts  not  night  nor  morning,  but  each 

new  moon  to  greet, 

She  cometh  with  shadowy  garments  whose  per 
fume,  subtle  and  sweet, 
From  balms  forever  forgotten,  floats  over  her 

lover's  low  bed, 
Where  he,  impatient,  is  sleeping  the  sleep  of 

the  restless  dead. 
For  had  he  not  said,  "Beloved,  come  at  the 

mystical  hour, 
When  the  young  moon  lightens  with  silver  the 

shade  of  the  mighty  tower  "  ? 
Had  he  not  sworn,  "  Though  I  perish !  though 

Belus  lie  in  the  dust !  "  — 
And  the  trust  of  a  loving  woman  is  blind  and 

unending  trust. 

Three  hands  were  joined  at  their  parting,  three 
voices  breathing  love's  breath ; 


The  Tower  5 

The  voice  of  the  third  was  ghostly,  its  hand 

was  the  hand  of  death  : 
And  the  white  stone  goddess  had  shivered  while 

the  glow  of  the  sunset  dyes 
Deepened    in    one   broad   blood  -  streak   and 

blazed  in  the  western  skies  ; 
But  the  maid,  unheeding  the  omen,  hears  only 

her  lover's  last  oath, 
Nor  dreams  that  his  life  has  been  purchased 

with  this,  as  he  dieth  for  both. 
The  grave  that  is  reeking  with  vengeance  no  tale 

of  its  mystery  brings  : 
Gods  !  —  he   was   a  Tyrian   soldier  !   she,  the 

daughter  of  kings  ! 
And  what  but  death  can  be  reckoned  as  price 

of  unequal  love  ? 
And  what  but  the  vow,   recorded  by   direful 

fates  above, 
Could  save  the  life  of  the  maiden  ?  —  the  vow 

that  never  again, 
While  the  tower  of  mighty  Belus  o'er  shadows 

the  haunts  of  men, 
With  its  ancient  and    storied   grandeur  —  ay, 

more  !  that  never  the  while 
One  upright  stone  shall  be  standing  alight  with 

the  young  moon's  smile, 


6  The  Tower 

Shall  body  or  ghost  of  the  soldier  under  its 

shadow  wait :  — 
But  death  is  longer  than  life-time ;  and  love  is 

stronger  than  fate ! 

There  were  hope  e'en  yet  for  the  tower,  stand 
ing  stark  and  alone, 

Had  the  flames  of  an  altar-fire  e'er  burned  in 
its  heart  of  stone ; 

Had  the  depths  of  its  adamant  bosom  e'er 
thrilled  with  a  love  or  hate, 

Stern  destiny's  grip  must  have  slackened,  slack 
ened  sooner  or  late. 

I  am  the  tower  of  Belus !  Can  the  story  be 
written,  " I  was  "  ? 

Shall  the  tide  of  an  ended  existence  flow  back 
to  the  primal  cause 

Which  sent  it  first  into  being  ?  and  records  of 
age  sublime 

In  utter  nothingness  vanish  under  the  finger  of 
time  ? 

Hist !  a  jar  in  the  ragged  brickwork  !  it  totters, 
and  now  is  still ; 

I  can  feel  the  sand  slow  trickling,  with  a  cold 
unearthy  thrill ; 

Perchance  but  a  stone  is  falling  —  perchance 
it  is  death's  last  throe  — 


The  Tower  7 

Ay !  under  the  young  moon's  glitter  I  catch  the 

roseate  glow 
Of  the  maiden's  royal  mantle  \  and  the  clang  of 

a  mailed  tread  . 
Tells  that  the  past  has  canceled  its  debt  which 

held  the  dead. 
He  cometh  with  step  triumphant !  he  readeth 

the  fateful  sign  : 
The  last  grim  arch  is  shattered  which  linked 

their  lot  with  mine. 

Ah,  fate,   to   the   last  relentless !   thy  vassal 

allegiance  owns  — 
Go  back  to   your  cities,    O   stranger !   write, 

"  Belus  a  heap  of  stones  ! " 


BODY   AND   SOUL. 

HERE  at  life's  silent,  shadowy  gate, 
O  Soul,  my  Soul,  I  lie  and  wait ; 
Faint  in  the  darkness,  blind  and  dumb, 
O  Soul,  my  promised  comrade,  come  ! 

The  morn  breaks  gladly  in  the  east ; 
Hush  !  hark  !  the  signs  of  solemn  feast ; 
The  softened  footstep  on  the  stair ; 
The  happy  smile,  the  chant,  the  prayer ; 
The  dainty  robes,  the  christening  bowl  — 
'T  is  well  with  Body  and  with  Soul. 

Why  lingerest  thou  at  dawn  of  life  ? 
Seest  not  a  world  with  pleasure  rife  ? 
Hear'st  not  the  song  and  whir  of  bird  ? 
The  joyous  leaves  to  music  stirred  ? 
Thou  too  shalt  sing  and  float  in  light ; 
My  Soul,  thou  shalt  be  happy  —  quite. 

But  yet  so  young  and  such  unrest  ? 
Thou  must  be  glad,  my  glorious  guest ! 
8 


Body  and  Soul 

Here  is  the  revel,  here  is  mirth ; 
Here  strains  enchanting  sway  the  earth  ; 
Measures  of  joy  in  fullness  spent ; 
My  Soul,  thou  canst  but  be  content. 

Is  this  a  tear  upon  my  hand  ? 
A  tear  ?     I  do  not  understand. 
Ripples  of  laughter,  and  a  moan  ? 
Why  sit  we  thus  apart,  alone  ? 
Lift  up  thine  eyes,  O  Soul,  and  sing ! 
He  comes,  our  lover,  and  our  king ! 
Feel  how  each  pulse  in  rapture  thrills ! 
Look,  at  our  feet  the  red  wine  spills ! 
And  he  —  he  comes  with  step  divine, 
A  spirit  meet,  O  Soul,  for  thine. 

Body  and  Soul's  supremest  bliss  — 
What,  dost  thou  ask  for  more  than  this  ? 

Stay,  here  are  houses,  lands,  and  gold ; 
Here,  honor's  hand  ;  here,  gains  untold ; 
Drink  thou  the  full  cup  to  the  lees ; 
Drink,  Soul,  and  make  thy  bed  in  ease. 
Thou  art  my  prisoner ;  thou,  my  slave  ; 
And  thou  shalt  sip  wherein  I  lave. 


10  Body  and  Soul 

Nay  ?  nay  ?     Then  there  are  broader  fields, 

Whose  luring  path  a  treasure  yields  ; 

Thou  shalt  the  universe  explore, 

Its  heights  of  knowledge,  depths  of  lore  ; 

Shalt  journey  far  o'er  land  and  sea ; 

And  I,  my  Soul,  will  follow  thee  ; 

Will  follow — follow  —  but  I  lag; 

My  heart  grows  faint,  my  footsteps  flag. 

And  there  are  higher,  holier  things  ? 
Is  this  a  taunt  thy  spirit  flings  ? 
What  is  it,  Soul,  that  thou  wouldst  say  ? 
Thou  erst  had  time  to  fast  and  pray. 
Give  me  one  word,  one  loving  sign, 
For  this  spent  life  of  yours  and  mine  ! 

I  held  thee  fast  by  sordid  ties  ? 

I  trailed  thy  garments,  veiled  thine  eyes  ? 

Go  on,  I  come  :  but  once  did  wait, 

0  Soul,  for  thee,  at  morning's  gate. 
Canst  thou  not  pause  to  give  me  breath  ? 
Perchance  this  shadow,  Soul,  is  death. 

1  stumble,  fall ;  it  is  the  grave  ; 
I  am  the  prisoner ;  I  the  slave  ; 

And  thou,  strange  guest,  for  aye  art  free ; 
Forgive  me,  Soul  !     I  could  but  be 


Body  and  Soul  // 

The  earth  that  soiled,  the  fleshly  clod, 
The  weight  that  bound  thee  to  the  sod. 

Dust  unto  dust !    I  hear  the  knell ; 
And  yet,  O  Soul,  I  loved  thee  well ! 


TWO    FACES. 

WHEN  that  enchanted  tapestry  unrolls 

The  pictures  wrought  in  old  Homeric  song, 

Where  heroes  wrestle  with  their  dual  souls 
Who,  born  of  gods,  do  yet  to  earth  belong  ; 

Where  white-armed  women  ply  the  wondrous 

looms, 
While  long-haired  Greek  or  crested  Trojan 

falls; 
Where  desolation  sits  in  lofty  rooms, 

And  old  men  weep  upon  the  fated  walls ; 

Where   skies  are  red  with   glare   of   burning 
pile, 

Of  cities  sacked,  of  beaked  ships  aflame ; 
Where  gods  insatiate  bend  with  awful  smile, 

Above  the  countless  hecatombs  of  slain  ; 

Where  that  superb  procession  of  the  past 
Sweeps  through  the  ages,  and  with  noiseless 
tread 


Two  Faces  13 

Marches  and  countermarches,  till  at  last 
I  seem  myself  to  stand  among  the  dead  ; 

Then  two  young  faces,  vivid  and  intense, 
Enthrall  my  spirit  wheresoe'er  I  turn  ; 

Two  visions  sweet  of  girlish  innocence, 

Of  eyes  that  shine,  of  cheeks  that  pale  and 
burn. 

And  them  I  follow  through  the  fitful  light 
That  weirdly  shifts   o'er  human  grief   and 

joy, 

E'en  as  they  follow,  from  her  chamber  white, 
The  Argive  Helen  to  the  walls  of  Troy. 

Silent  they  watch,  with  widely  wondering  eyes, 
Her  tender  tears  at  Menelaus'  name, 

Discerning  there  that  olden  sad  surprise, 
Immortal  beauty  and  immortal  shame. 

Silent  they  wait,  these  maids-in-waiting  sweet  : 
What  sudden  thoughts  within  your  bosoms 

stir, 
O  mute  companions,  as  at  Helen's  feet, 

Ye   watch   the    life-tide   ebb   and  flow  for 
her? 


14  Two  Faces 

What  part  have  ye  in  jealousy  and  hate, 
In  love  and  loss  and  sin's  unseemly  woe  ? 

Alas  !     Of  all  the  mysteries  of  fate, 

There  is  not  one  ye  shall  not  live  to  know ! 

Across  life's  web  the  shuttle  rainbow-hued 
No  more  henceforth  can  send  its  stainless 

thread ; 

A  dull  red  seam,  with  this  day's  blight  imbued, 
Marks  woman's  faith  despoiled  and   lying 
dead. 

And  no  dread  picture  on  the  ancient  page 
So  moves  my  being,  —  ah  !  not  even  he, 

The  great  Achilles,  awful  in  his  rage, 

Nursing  his  wrath  beside  the  wailing  sea  ; 

Nor  fair  Andromache,  who  through  her  tears 

Holds  up  her  boy  again  and  yet  again 
For  that  farewell  which,   ringing  through  the 

years, 

Makes  women  weep  and  men  once  more  be 
men,- 

Nor,  where  the  fount  of  swift  Scamander  runs, 
The  glorious  Hector  falters  for  relief ; 


Two  Faces  15 

Not  aged  Priam,  spoiled  of  many  sons ; 
Not  Hecuba,  still  royal  in  her  grief  ; 

But,  uneclipsed  by  all  the  mighty  shades, 
Your  faces   haunt   me,    threatened   by   the 
Fates, 

^Ethra  and  Clymene,  —  O  silent  maids, 
Who  stand  with  Helen  at  the  Scaean  gates ! 


SHOES   OF   ALABASTER. 

FROM  Agra,  city  of  delight, 

These  tiny  shoes  have  come  to  me, 

Of  alabaster  carven  white, 
With  clasp  and  chasery. 

They  found  them  at  the  temple  door 
Where  opal  clouds  swing  low  and  swirl, 

Like  kindred  shapes,  to  hover  o'er 
Thy  domes,  O  Mosque  of  Pearl ! 

Who  left  them  at  that  glorious  gate  ? 

For  plaint  or  prayer  of  what  fair  maid 
Were  these  frail  wonders  doomed  to  wait 

Outside  the  sacred  shade  ? 

I  see  her  linger  in  the  glow, 

Where  sunlit  tulips  sway  and  meet ; 

The  milk-white  marbles  warmer  grow 
To  lure  her  dainty  feet. 
16 


Shoes  of  Alabaster  /7 

I  see  her  pass  within  the  shrine 
Whose  walls  are  like  to  Paradise  ; 

Their  jeweled  scrolls,  with  text  divine, 
Are  envious  of  her  eyes. 

Her  gentle  footfall  leaves  no  sound 
Within  the  calm  and  holy  fane ; 

Her  lovers,  prostrate  on  the  ground, 
Shall  wait  for  her  in  vain. 

For  never  mortal  maid  was  she, 

But  some  white  wraith  of  fancy's  muse, 

Some  dream-child  born  of  ecstasy, 
Who  wore  these  flawless  shoes. 

With  pointed  tips  set  toward  the  East, 
Here  in  the  sunlight  they  shall  rest, 

Until,  from  her  long  fast,  or  feast, 
Shall  come  their  spirit-guest. 

White  ghosts  of  shoes  !  speed  if  ye  must 
When  she  shall  call ;  but  leave,  I  pray, 

Two  flakes  of  alabaster  dust, 
To  show  she  passed  this  way. 


THE   FIRST   GREEK   PORTRAIT. 

So  very  long  ago  it  was,  men  have  forgot  the 

year, 
And  yet  the  time  of  myrtle-bloom  to  lovers 

then  was  dear ; 
The  waves   were   then  as  blue  as   now  that 

washed  the  Sicyon  shore, 
The  olive's  shade,  as  gray  and  green,  above 

the  open  door, 
Where  stood  the  ancient  potter's  wheel,  with 

vase  and  urn  of  clay, 
Simply,  and  yet  so  chastely  wrought,  men  have 

forgot  the  way. 
The  daffodils  and  hyacinths  beneath  the  gray 

wall  grew, 

O'er  which  the  wild  Corinthian  grape  its  tan 
gled  blossom  threw ; 
And  there  the  handsome,  glad  young  Greek 

the  potter's  daughter  wooed, 
In  days  when  maids  were  dear  as  now,  and 

men  as  brave  and  good. 
He  said,  "  Farewell  —  ah,  sweet  —  farewell !  " 

and  yet  he  did  not  go ; 
18 


The  First  Greek  Portrait  19 

Old  is  the  fashion,  very  old,  but  still  its  ways 
we  know; 

And  longingly  and  lovingly  his  shadow  on  the 
wall 

Swayed  in  the  sunlight,  went  and  came,  as 
shadows  flit  and  fall, 

Till  suddenly  —  a  profile  clear  upon  the  dark 
ened  space  — 

The  young  Greek  girl,  with  hand  inspired, 
had  drawn  her  lover's  face. 

The  potter  marveled  when  he  found  the  shadow 

pictured  there : 
"'Tis  from   the   gods,   a  gift,"  he  said,   "to 

shape  our  soul's  despair  !  " 
And  reverently  he  filled  the  lines,  which  limned 

the  portrait  old, 
With  yellow  clay  from  Corinth's  strand  and 

sacred  kept  the  mould  j 
While  all  the  Sicyon  potters  came  to  learn,  by 

look  or  sign, 
How  haply  to  Butades'  child  befell  this  touch 

divine. 
And  through  the  world  the  wonder  went  j  but 

idle  now  her  fame  :  — 
It  was  so  very  long  ago,  men  have  forgot  her 

name ! 


2o  The  First  Greek  Portrait 

Ah !   great  Apelles  !   what  didst   thou  —  thou 

son  of  Sicyon's  heart ! 
Proud  heir  of  all  to  Greece  bequeathed  by  this 

one  maiden's  art  — 
That  thou  hast  not  remembered   her,  when 

glorious  in  the  land  ? 
What  face  so  dear  as  hers  had  been  from  thy 

immortal  hand  ? 
And  Myron  grand  !  and  Phidias !  had  ye  no 

debt  to  own  ? 
No   memory  to  cast  in   bronze,  no  grace  to 

carve  in  stone, 
To  mind  us  of  this  fair  Greek  maid,  of  all  her 

race  the  first 
To  teach :  Love  is  the  fount  of  art  for  which 

the  nations  thirst  ? 
Your  gods  are  many !     Great  they  stand !    We 

bow  before  their  shrine  ; 
And  yet  we  would  there  might  have  been,  in 

all  the  glorious  line, 
One  simply  carven  monument,  whereon  we  still 

might  trace : 
To  her  who  erst  on  Sicyon's  wall  outlined  her 

lover's  face ! 


A  GHOST. 

THIS  is  Pavia !     Grand  old  town 

Of  priestly  lore  and  state  renown. 

This  is  Pavia  !  let  us  stay 

Our  weary  feet  one  night  and  day. 

The  city  of  an  hundred  towers, 

Its  great  heart  still  will  shelter  ours ; 

Its  walls  are  shadowy,  cool,  and  gray ; 

Here  let  us  rest  one  night  and  day. 

Beneath  these  arches,  grim  and  quaint, 
Still  lies  the  dust  of  Sage  and  Saint, 
Whose  ashes  for  a  thousand  years   - 
Have  shrined  the  pilgrim's  fitful  tears. 
Men  idly  come  and  idly  go  — 
What  is  it  that  affrights  me  so  ? 
Some  awful  presence  in  the  air, 
Ghost-like  and  chill,  seems  everywhere. 
Pavia  ?     Naught  is  in  the  word  ! 
What  have  I  read  ?  what  have  I  heard  ? 
Who  beckons  when  I  fain  would  wait 
At  Belcredi,  or  Maine's  gate  ? 


22  A  Ghost 

Who  follows  when  my  footsteps  stray 
Within  thy  courts,  San  Michele'  ? 
Who  glides  before  through  hall  and  fane 
Founded  of  old  by  Charlemagne  ? 
By  Charlemagne  ?     Ah,  now  I  know, 
Stand  back  I  pray,  and  let  me  go  ! 
Where  his  great  deeds  in  splendor  shine, 
Still  lurk  the  sin  and  shame  of  thine. 
Thy  dread  name,  I  recall  at  last, 
Thou  saddest  ghost  of  all  the  past ! 

Ay !  thou  wert  Queen  !  the  last  to  hold 
That  title  proud  in  Wessex  old  ! 
Thou  wert  Eadburgha  —  yes,  I  see 
The  empty  cup  thou  handest  me. 
Too  late,  alas,  my  scanty  dole 
To  ease  the  hunger  of  a  soul ! 
Thou  gav'st  thy  husband's  friend  to  sup, 
And  mixed  for  him  the  poisoned  cup. 
The  brave  king  quaffed  at  foaming  brim ; 
Young  Warr,  his  liege,  drank  after  him, 
And  both  fell  dead  !     Oh,  tale  of  woe  ! 
Begun  long  centuries  ago  ! 

And  o'er  the  seas  to  Charlemagne 
Thou  fled'st  for  comfort,  but  in  vain. 


A  Ghost  23 

He  gently  bade  the  sweet  nuns  call 

Thee,  Lady  of  the  Convent  Hall ; 

But  thy  seared  soul  found  naught  of  good 

Amidst  the  saintly  sisterhood ; 

So  driven  on,  and  up  and  down, 

From  cloister-gate  to  tower  and  town, 

Thou  cam'st,  at  last,  with  bleeding  feet, 

To  tread  Pavia's  ancient  street ; 

Here  doomed  to  beg  forevermore 

Thy  bitter  bread  from  door  to  door. 

Here  thou  didst  die  with  hunger's  wail ; 

I  would  I  could  forget  the  tale ! 

I  would  to-night  I  did  not  know 

Thy  wan  shape  flitting  to  and  fro  ; 

Thy  cup  once  drained,  no  hand  could  fill ; 

That  cup  accurst  is  empty  still ! 

Too  late,  alas,  my  scanty  dole 

To  ease  the  hunger  of  a  soul  ! 

May  God's  grace  rest  thee  at  the  last, 

Thou  saddest  ghost  of  all  the  past  1 

Pavia  !     Ah,  I  would  not  stay 
Within  thy  walls  one  night  or  day ! 


THE    MOUNTAIN    OF   THE    HOLY 
CROSS. 

THE  Lord  himself  hath  set  the  sign  !  — 

"  Dear  Christ  forgive  !  "  God's  servant  prayed ; 

And  every  head  along  the  line 

Of  bronzed,  rough-bearded  men  was  bare, 

In  sudden  silence,  as  the  prayer 

Arose  within  the  mission-glade. 

Before,  behind,  the  mountains  stood  ; 

In  grim,  defiant  strength  arrayed, 

They  seemed  an  awful  brotherhood, 

Through  some  gigantic  passion  knit ; 

Too  great  for  earth  ;  for  heaven  unfit ; 

"  Dear  Christ  forgive  !  "  God's  servant  prayed. 

And  lo  !  beyond  the  wild  ravine, 
Where  ghostly  pines  their  gray  arms  toss, 
A  hoary  mountain  head  was  seen, 
Whose  fissured  crest  forever  shows, 
Emblazoned  in  eternal  snows, 
The  sacred  emblem  of  the  Cross. 
24 


The  Mountain  of  the  Holy  Cross      25 

And  men  who  called  the  world  accurst, 
And  men  who  ne'er  had  heard  a  prayer, 
Men  who  had  dared  and  done  their  worst, 
Rode  awestruck  through  the  lonely  way, 
Forgetting  what  they  fain  would  say, 
With  Christ's  own  sign  before  them  there. 

Then  slowly  up  the  mountain  track, 
Wind-swept,  the  rude  procession  swayed  ; 
Nor,  though  long  summers  waned,  came  back. 
Died  they  beneath  the  holy  sign 
Of  earth-love  crowned  by  the  divine  ? 
"  We  hope  through   Christ !  "   God's   servant 
prayed. 

The  Lord  himself  the  Cross  hath  set ! 

Was  the  Omniscient  One  afraid 

Lest  his  far-straying  sons  forget  ? 

Lest  they,  who  midst  the  mountains  hide, 

Remember  not  the  Crucified  ? 

"  Dear  Christ,  forbid !  "  God's  servant  prayed. 


SLUMBER  SONG. 

CALM,  unimpassioned,  in  thy  wide  dominions, 
Wilt  thou  relentless  stay,  and  staying  keep 

The  restful  shadows  of  thy  purple  pinions 
Aloof  from  mortals,  O  sweet  goddess,  Sleep  ? 

We  know  the  twilight  brought  thy  soft  caresses, 
But  toil  forbade  us,  and  we  might  not  rest ; 

We  saw  white  poppies  braided  in  thy  tresses, 
We  breathed  their  fragrance,  leaning  on  thy 
breast ; 

Yet  dared  not  stay  lest,  drowsy  at  its  coming, 
We  mock  the  midnight  —  and  the  watch  was 

set; 

We  longed  to  clasp  thee,  but  some  chill,  be 
numbing 
Presence  withheld  us,  and  withholds  us  yet. 

Art  thou  so   grieved  that  like  some  slighted 

maiden, 

Thou  'It  not  return  though  we  repentant  weep, 
26 


Slumber  Song  27 

And  pray  for  balms,  in  Lotos  islands  laden 
With    slumberous    airs,  O  gentle    goddess, 
Sleep  ? 

Or,  vigil-worn,  do  thy  obscure  relations 
To  man's  dull  senses  faintly  die  away  ? 

And  have  we  left  no  mystic  incantations 
To  lure  thee  back,  no  charm  to  bid  thee  stay  ? 

Ah !  I  recall  one  old  song's  drowsy  measure, 

A  rhythmic  murmur  to  a  baby  fair ;  — 
Once    more,  sweet   goddess,  bend    at  mortal 

pleasure ! 

Shake  out  the  blossoms    from  thy  lustrous 
hair! 

"We  float,  we  float !  "  a  mother  sang  and  sing 
ing, 

Rocked  to  and  fro  and  swayed  her  baby  love  ; 
"  White  spray  swings  upward  to  the  blue  waves 

clinging ; 

White  clouds  drift  downward  from  the  blue 
above. 

"  The  great  waves  rise  with  steady  undulations  ; 
The   great  waves   fall ;  we    lie  upon    their 
breast ; 


28  Slumber  Song 

We  hold  our  hearts  to  check  their  wild  pulsa 
tions, 

We  clasp  our  hands  —  but  rest,  my  baby, 
rest! 

"  Thou  hast  no  care  !     Thou  need'st  not  wake 

or  worry 
Should  moons  go  eastward  or  should  moons 

go  west ; 
What  couldst  thou  do  though  stars  should  wait 

or  hurry, 
In  their  long  courses  ?     Rest,  my  baby,  rest ! 

"  It  is  not  time,  until  some  far  to-morrow, 
For  thee  to  strive  with  Why  and  Whence  and 

How; 

Leave  the  great  world  to  hug  its  load  of  sor 
row 
In  bitterness  !  Sleep,  baby  love,  sleep  now  ! 

"  We  float,  we  float ! "  she  sang  ;  and,  with  her, 

singing, 

My  soul  keeps  tune,  repeating  still  the  cry, 
"What    couldst   thou  do  though  stars  astray 

were  swinging  ? " 
Ah,  little  one  !  and  what  indeed  could  I  ? 


Slumber  Song  29 

I  lay  me  down  and  leave  till  God's  to-morrow 
Earth's  vexing  problems  with  their  stern  be 
quest, 

Since  rest  is  duty !  and  I  fain  would  borrow 
The  mother-music  for  my  spirit's  guest. 

And  lo !    she    comes !     As    in    the  old  time 

plighted, 
Once    more   we    float,  through    Dreamland 

shadows  deep ; 

We  did  not  know,  until  our  souls  were  righted, 
How  vain  our  watching,  nor  how  blest  our 
sleep. 


WINDS  OF  THE  NORTH. 

THE  cold  winds  out  of  the  Northland  blow, 
Filling  the  frosty  air  with  snow, 
Sweeping  the  white  flakes  to  and  fro, 

O'er  the  moorlands  dreary ; 
My  lord,  he  wills  that  the  flames  burn  higher, 
My  lady,  around  the  glowing  fire, 
Draweth  her  crimson  cushions  nigher, 

Calling  it  cheery. 

I  am  out  in  the  gardens  old, 
Out  in  the  bitter,  stinging  cold, 
Smiling  to  see  the  gathering  mould 

On  the  brown  leaves  lying ; 
Drinking  with  joy  the  breath  of  the  breeze 
That  sweeps  through  the  boughs  of  the  leafless 

trees, 
The  breath  of  the  wind  from  the  Northern  Seas 

To  the  dead  flowers  sighing. 

Let  them  bar  their  door  to  the  Northwind  bold, 
Round  them  closer  their  garments  fold, 
30 


Winds  of  the  North  31 

Shudder  as  when  a  tale  is  told 

Of  the  dead  and  dying ; 
The  doors  of  my  heart  I  open  throw, 
Through  its  empty  portals  come  and  go, 

0  wild  Northwinds,  for  I  love  ye  so, 

With  a  love  defying ! 

Were  ye  not  born  in  that  land  of  mine, 
Rocked  in  the  arms  of  the  Northern  pine, 
Kissed  by  the  leaves  of  the  Upland  vine 

Which  icily  glisten  ? 
Have  I  not  come  in  the  gloom  to-night, 
Out  in  the  gloom  which  yet  is  bright, 
With  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  Northern  light, 

To  lovingly  listen  ? 

Blow,  glorious  winds  !  for  ye  bring  to  me 
A  chant  of  the  Northland  strong  and  free, 
With  sweep  of  the  skies,  and  surge  of  the  sea, 

Through  its  measure  flowing ; 
And  clear  in  its  rhythmical  undertone, 

1  catch  the  airs  to  my  childhood  known, 
The  glad,  wild  songs  that  were  mine  alone, 

With  the  Northwinds  blowing. 


A  MIRACLE 

O  RADIANT  Life,  when  we  set  sail  together, 
From  out  the  mist-land,  with  your  hand  in 
mine 

You  vowed  me  all  things ;  days  of  sunlit  weather, 
And  nights  of  calm  and  skies  of  golden  shine. 

You  said  that  I  should  drift  by  happy  reaches 
Of  shores  low  lying  where  the  sea-bird  flies ; 

That    I  should   watch,    beyond   white-sanded 

beaches, 
The  glorious  stars  above  the  mountains  rise. 

That  some  day  I  should  see  the  mystic  token 
Which  marked  the  harbor  where  my  Love 
had  been ; 

Should  see,  and  know  my  little  boat  was  spoken, 
And  with  glad  sails  go  flying  swiftly  in. 

You  promised,  Life,  that  I  should  find  the  treas 
ure 

Of  which  immortals  long  have  dreamed  and 
sung; 

32 


A  Miracle  33 

The  gift  supreme  —  love's  bliss  in  boundless 

measure ! 

And    I    believed,  for  life    and    love   were 
young. 

Sit  closer  now,  and  clasp  my  hand  more  tightly  ! 

Nor  hope,  nor   promise   fails  though  years 

have  fled, 
But  ah !  I  see  I  took  your  vows  too  lightly, 

Too  idly,  Life  !  I  knew  not  what  you  said. 

Safely  you  guided  to  the  blessed  haven 

My  fragile  craft ;  yet  many  a  one  went  down 
Whose   hopes  as  eager  were,  nor  wrong  nor 

craven  ; 

But  swift   storms  whitened,  and  the  rocks 
stood  brown. 

I  know  the  ways  where  other  voyagers  drift 
ing 

Beheld  with  joy  the  hilltops  all  a-gem  ;  — 
Wrecked  in  the  shadow  of  the  heights  uplift 
ing, 

Tell  me,  O  Life,  what  was 't  thou  promised 
them? 


34  <A  Miracle 

Love's  all !  as   unto   me  in  that  bright  dawn 
ing!— 

I  tremble  now  to  hold  such  rapture  true  ! 
It  is  a  miracle  !  Yet  I,  at  morning, 

Saw  not  the  marvel,  nor  the  wonder  knew. 


HADST  THOU   BUT  TURNED. 

SIR  LANCELOT,  turn  back,  turn  back, 

I  pray  thee,  from  the  lonely  downs ! 
Why  leavest  thou  the  beaten  track 

That  leads  to  city,  tower  and  towns  ? 
This  way  are  footpaths  rough  and  bare, 

With  edge  of  moss  or  scanty  fern  ; 
Beyond  are  meadows  lush  and  fair  :  — 

Sir  Lancelot,  I  pray  thee  turn  ! 

Thou  ridest  with  thy  moody  brain  ; 

Thou  ridest  with  thy  sullen  heart ; 
Broad  roads  there  are  whose  ways  are  plain  ; 

Why  seek  the  field  that  lies  apart  ? 
Footpaths  oft  mean  hearth-fires  I  trow, 

And  meat  and  drink —  and  after  that  ? 
Oh,  after  that  —  couldst  thou  but  know, 

Thou  wouldst  not  ride  to  Astolat. 

Nor  mist,  nor  hill  can  longer  hide 
The  castle-walls  and  turrets  gray ; 
35 


<5  Hadst  thou  but  Turned 

Fair  Astolat,  thy  gates  were  wide, 

Thy  welcome  boundless  that  fair  day ; 

And  she,  the  "  lily-maid,"  the  child, 
Served  graciously  the  guest  —  alack  ! 

She  had  not  raised  her  eyes  and  smiled, 
O  Lancelot,  hadst  thou  turned  back ! 

She  had  not  asked,  she  had  not  heard 

The  witching  tale  of  spur  and  plume  : 
She  had  not  dared  the  sudden  word 

That  set  the  girlish  cheeks  abloom, 
When,  craving  sweet  consent  of  thine, 

She  bounded  up  the  castle  stair, 
And  brought  the  red  embroidered  sign, 

O  Lancelot,  for  thee  to  wear  ! 

She  had  not  watched  thee  ride  away, 

Nor  guarded,  in  that  eastern  tower, 
Thy  massive  shield  by  night  and  day, 

Tracing  each  blazoned  leaf  and  flower, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  close-barred  door, 

While  she  entranced  and  joyous  sat, 
Thy  simplest  word  repeating  o'er, 

Hadst  thou  not  come  to  Astolat. 

There  had  not  dawned  that  bitter  morn 
When  woke  the  heart  of  sweet  Elaine  ; 


Hadst  thou  but  Turned 

And  when,  to  crush  the  love  new-born, 
Again  the  knight  rode  down  the  plain, 

No  scarlet  sleeve  flares  on  his  helm, 
No  farewell  words  he  fondly  saith ; 

The  bravest  peer  of  Arthur's  realm 

Nor  heeds,  nor  hears,  the  wail  of  death. 

Ah,  Lancelot !  hadst  thou  not  come 

To  Astolat  that  woeful  day, 
The  stainless  dead,  "  steered  by  the  dumb," 

Had  not  in  silence  sailed  away. 
We  had  not  watched  the  black-draped  barge 

Float  slowly  toward  the  palace  gate ; 
Nor  seen,  in  stately  halls  and  large, 

The  lily-maiden  audience  wait. 

We  had  not  heard  the  rueful  plea, 

(This,  Lancelot,  thou  too  shalt  hear !) 
"  O  peerless  knight,  pray  thou  for  me  ! 

Pray  thou  for  me,  Queen  Guinevere, 
And  give  me  burial,  for  the  sake 

Of  maiden  love,  unsought,  unwed  ;  — 
Fear  not,  sweet  Queen,  I  shall  not  wake  ! 

Farewell,  Sir  Knight,  for  I  am  dead  !  " 

Nor  had  we  wept,  when  all  the  train 
Moved  up  the  aisle  with  solemn  march, 


38  Hadst  thou  but  Turned 

To  lay  the  golden-haired  Elaine 
Beneath  the  grand  cathedral  arch  ; 

And  yet,  throughout  the  ages  long, 
Our  human  hearts  in  vain  had  yearned 

For  England's  saddest,  sweetest  song, 
O  Lancelot,  hadst  thou  but  turned  ! 


THE   CASTLE  OF   SONG. 

UPON  the  mountain  height  it  stands, 
In  far-off,  yet  familiar  lands. 

Its  outer  walls  are  gray  and  cold, 

Its  sculptured  gates  are  green  with  mould. 

No  warden  from  the  watch-tower  calls ; 
No  bugle  note  of  welcome  falls. 

Through  garden  paths,  dark  ivies  twine, 
With  furze  and  heath  and  eglantine. 

The  hawthorn's  branches  bare  and  dry 
Are  sharply  etched  against  the  sky. 

The  dreary  poplar  casts  a  spell, 
A  dead  and  ghostly  sentinel. 

Within  the  empty  banquet  hall 
Elusive  footsteps  flit  and  fall. 
39 


40  The  Castle  of  Song 

Who  comes  may  wander  at  his  will, 
But  finds  each  chamber  cold  and  still, 

Each  corridor  unswept  and  lone,  — 
Until  the  master  claims  his  own. 

Then  he  who  holds  the  castle's  key, 
Wakes  light  and  love  and  ecstasy ! 

In  every  hall  the  hearth-fires  glow ; 
Fair  youths  and  brave  pass  to  and  fro  ; 

While  stately  ladies  sit  within, 
Amidst  their  waiting-maids,  and  spin. 

The  happy  bells,  beneath  the  tower, 
From  dawn  to  dawn  repeat  the  hour. 

The  May-time  sends  its  messenger, 
And  violet  banks  are  all  astir. 

The  ivy  for  the  rose  makes  room  ; 

The  hawthorn's  boughs  are  white  with  bloom  ; 

And  lo !     Still  wet  with  morning  dew, 
The  Wonder-Flower  of  heavenly  blue ! 


The  Castle  of  Song  41 

The  glorious  hours  of  day  are  spent 
In  knightly  deed  or  tournament. 

The  lofty  Bayards  all  are  here, 
Without  reproach,  without  a  fear. 

At  nightfall,  to  the  chapel  close, 
The  courtly  train  in  reverence  goes, 

And  fair  nuns  glide  like  shadows  tall, 
With  pale  moon-faces,  through  the  hall ;  — 

Cecilia,  wrapt  in  holy  calm  ; 

Fair  Hildegarde,  with  crown  and  palm  ; 

And  she  the  world  remembereth, 
The  sweet  girl  saint,  Elizabeth. 

But  when  the  vesper  prayers  are  said, 
The  feast  of  song  hath  place  instead. 

With  knight  and  prince  on  either  hand, 
The  minstrel  and  the  harper  stand,  — 

The  heroes  of  the  Minnelay, 
Reinmar  the  Old,  Wolfram  the  Gray, 


42  The  Castle  of  Song 

And  he  whom  best  we  love  to  name, 
Walther  of  fair  Birdmeadow  fame. 

Who  holds  the  castle's  mystic  key, 
Lord  of  romance  and  song  is  he ! 

His  vassals,  every  wave  and  breeze, 
With  treasure  from  beyond  the  seas  ! 

And  from  his  own  watch  tower  afar, 
His  soul  goes  forth  from  star  to  star. 

The  heavens  hang  low  —  a  scroll  unsealed ; 
The  upper  glories  stand  revealed. 

Who  holds  the  castle's  mystic  key, 
The  least  of  servitors  is  he  ! 

He  flings  the  portals  open  wide, 
That  all  may  enter  and  abide. 

His  bosom  thrills  with  holy  cheer ; 
Will  not  the  world  be  glad  to  hear  ? 

The  great,  wise  world  ?     It  has  no  time 
For  wonder-tale  or  idle  rhyme  ! 


The  Castle  of  Song  4) 

The  great  wise  world  ?     It  has  no  need 
Heart-song,  or  star-song,  e'er  to  heed  ! 

Or  if  it  chance  a  strain  to  hear, 
It  lists  with  unreceptive  ear, 

As  if  the  castle  did  but  seem,  — 
A  fantasie,  or  foolish  dream  ! 

So  floats  the  legend  lightly  on  ; 

A  moment's  gleam,  and  then  't  is  gone, 

Like  thistle-down  upon  the  gale !  — 
But  simple  folk  believe  the  tale 

Of  wondrous,  song-enchanted  heights  ; 
And  some  have  seen  the  castle-lights. 


AT  VESPERS. 

THE  vesper  bells  ! 
And  sweet-faced  nuns  at  even 
Go  in  and  out ;  while  clear  the  music  swells, 
Earth-born  but  tuned  for  heaven, 

O  vesper  bells ! 

With  folded  hands, 
The  convent  maidens  meetly 
Follow  the  train ;  blessing  the  sacred  bands 
Which  bind  them,  firmly,  sweetly, 
With  folded  hands. 

And  over  them 
Our  Lady's  eye  beholding  ; 
Not  e'en  the  winds  dare  kiss  her  mantle's  hem, 
Or  flutter  in  its  folding  : 

O  sacred  hem ! 

Up  the  dim  aisles, 
Beyond  the  studded  portals, 
Kneeling  before  the  shrine  where  Mary  smiles, 
44 


At  Vespers  45 

They  pass,  O  happy  mortals  ! 
Up  the  dim  aisles. 

The  golden  sun, 

Through  painted  windows  stealing, 
Throws   shadows   on   the   cheek  of  one ;  for 

one 

The  bloom  of  rose  revealing. 
O  wayward  sun  ! 

God  only  sees 

How  silent  hearts  are  broken  ; 
The  deepening  flush,  the  Prince,  on  bended 

knees, 

May  trace  —  love's  mystic  token  — 
On  bended  knees. 

Let  grandest  march 
From  organ  old  and  solemn 
Ring  through  the  gloom  of  each  receding  arch, 
Around  each  fluted  column  ! 

The  Wedding  March ! 

Earth  has  a  bride 
To-day.     Through  misty  veiling 
Gleam  love-lit  eyes  ;  jewels  and  flowers  hide 


46  At  Vespers 

Within  her  silken  trailing, 

Fair  earth-born  bride  ! 

But  no  less  fair 
Is  she  who  on  the  morrow, 
Kneels  upon  holy  ground,  in  meekness  there 
Asking  surcease  of  sorrow  ; 

Ah,  no  less  fair  ! 

And  this  is  all ! 
On  strength  divine  relying, 
The  veiled  head  bows ;  and  sable  curtains  fall 
O'er  human  self-denying ; 

And  this  is  all ! 

With  mortal  eyes, 
We  see.     Leave  it  for  Him 
To  judge  —  in  whom  omniscient  power  lies  — 
Whether  the  blight  of  earth  shall  dim 

The  sacrifice. 


UNTER   DEN   LINDEN. 

JUNE  16,  1871. 
I. 

"  VICTORY  ! "    This  was  the  first  that  she  read  : 
And  then,  "  Heart's  dearest,"  the  soldier  had 

said, 

Tracing  the  lines  in  a  faltering  way, 
"  Heart's  dearest,  the  hospital  surgeons  say 
That  I  shall  be  out  of  their  hands  to-day. 
'T  was  an  ugly  wound,  but  the  danger  is  past ; 
I  am  coming  to  you,  at  last  —  at  last ! 
Unter  den  Linden  /    Yes,  we  shall  be  there  ! 
Come  with  a  rose  in  your  dark  shining  hair  — 
Not  the  white  blossoms  you  once  used  to  wear. 
White  roses  are  meet  for  those  who  are  slain ; 
The  rich  wine-red,  for  the  welcome,  remain  ; 
Red  as  our  life-blood,  and  sweet  as  the  air 
That  floated  from  Eden,  sweet  and  as  rare ; 
Greet  me  with  a  wine-red  rose  in  your  hair ! 
Germania  triumphs  !     Come  with  a  song  ; 
And   can    you,    dear   heart,   be    patient    and 

strong  ? 

47 


48  Unter  den  Linden 

For  slow  is  the  crutch  and  ghastly  the  sling, 
And  gone   is  the  hand  that  once  wore   the 

ring  — 

Your  ring,  the  one  pledge  I  promised  to  bring ! 
I  yield  them  ungrudged,  with  life,  should  need 

be, 
But  hold  fast  my  troth  to  country  and  thee." 


II. 


In   through   the    Brandenburg    gateway  they 

come, 

With  clashing  of  arms  and  clangor  of  drum ! 
Unter  den  Linden  !    How  proudly  thy  shade 
Quivers  and  thrills  with  the  wild  cannonade, 
As  wild  as  the  battle's  carnival  made  ! 
Borne  on  its  passion  we  catch  up  the  song ; 
Thrilling  and  swelling,  it  thunders  along  ; 
Hear  it,  ye  nations  afar  o'er  the  sea ! 
"  Germania  triumphs  !     Germania  free  — 
Free  and  united  through  glad  victory !  " 
Heroes  of  Saarbriick  and  Metz  and  Sedan 
Tell  how  the  torrent  of  victory  ran  ! 
Fair  hands  of  women  shall  bring  from  afar 
Hundreds  of  flowers  for  each  bloody  scar  — 
Scars  that  far  dearer  than  rare  jewels  are. 


Unter  den  Linden  49 

"  The  Emperor  comes  !  "    for  his  guardsmen 

make  way !  — 

"A  woman,  struck  faint,  has  fallen/'  ye  say? 
And  the  troops,  in  their  jubilant  grand  review, 
March  on  through  the  linden-grown  avenue ; 
But  she  in  her  death-swoon  still  lieth  there, 
A  woman  stone  white,  yet  passingly  fair, 
With  the  bloom  of  a  wine-red  rose  in  her  hair. 
Ah !    what   did   ye   hear   the  guardsman  had 

said  ? 
"  Only  a  man,  in  the  hospital,  dead  ! " 


LAVINIA. 

A  PAINTING  BY  TITIAN   IN  THE   ROYAL 
MUSEUM  AT  BERLIN. 

I  COME  once  more  to  gaze  on  thee, 

Lavinia ! 

O'er  miles  and  miles  of  weary  sea, 
Thy  tender  eyes  have  followed  me  ; 
I  come  once  more  to  gaze  on  thee. 
The  long  days  crowd  into  the  years, 
And  years  die  out  with  length  of  days, 
While  mocked  alike  are  hopes  and  fears, 
In  life's  perplexing,  tangled  ways, 
Where  men  rush  madly  for  the  prize, 
Which,  lost  or  won,  ne'er  satisfies ; 
Yet  never  once,  though  stars  may  shine 
Or  shadows  drift  through  skies  of  mine, 
Can  I  forget  the  matchless  grace 
That  lighteth  up  thy  form  and  face ; 
The  charm  that  baffles  time  and  tide, 
And  holds  me  captive  at  thy  side. 


Lavinia  5, 

I  am  not  skilled  in  artist-lore, 

Lavinia ! 

Of  critic's  phrase  I  bring  no  store, 
The  words  fall  soulless  o'er  and  o'er ; 
I  am  not  skilled  in  artist-lore. 
I  only  know  the  master's  hand 
Brings  not  such  life  from  fancies  dim  ; 
I  know  you  stood  as  now  you  stand, 
And  gave  the  picture  unto  him. 
I  know  the  glory  painted  there 
Hath  glimmered  in  thy  golden  hair ; 
I  know  the  warm  and  tender  brown 
Hath  nestled  in  thine  amber  gown. 
I  stand  enraptured  at  thy  feet ; 
Hast  thou  no  word  of  greeting  sweet  ? 
Thy  lips  have  called  though  they  be  dumb  ; 
Lavinia,  have  I  not  come  ? 

I  come  to  gaze  into  thine  eyes, 

Lavinia ! 

I  capture  there  the  sweet  surprise 
That  in  their  dusky  shadow  lies ; 
I  gaze  and  gaze  into  thine  eyes. 
'T  were  false  to  call  thy  face  divine, 
Life's  perfectness  is  pictured  there  ; 
The  saints  with  heavenly  beauty  shine, 


52  Lavinia 

Thou  of  the  earth  art  earthly  fair. 
Madonna  like,  a  distant  star 
Might  beckon  me  to  realms  afar  ; 
But  thou,  thou  wouldst  have  walked  with  me, 
Have  led  my  steps  right  loyally 
Through  fragrant  field  or  sterile  dearth, 
Hadst  thou  not  come  so  soon  to  earth  ; 
Had  I,  untrammeled  with  my  fate, 
Not  called  to  thee,  alas,  so  late  ! 

Wilt  thou  not  wait  in  heaven  for  me, 

Lavinia  ? 

A  thousand  years  may  only  be 
A  single  day,  sweet  friend,  to  thee ; 
Wilt  thou  not  wait  in  heaven  for  me  ? 
Long  leagues  of  ocean  seem  to  lie 
Between  me  and  the  harbor-bar ; 
Perchance  thou  canst  not  hear  my  cry 
Across  the  billows,  faint  and  far ; 
Yet  sometimes  when  the  sea-foam  falls 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  walls, 
Where  rays  of  sunlit  topaz  mix 
With  deeper  veins  of  sardonyx. 
Thus  might  thy  soul  resplendent  shine 
Beside  the  colder  glow  of  mine  ! 
Lavinia,  wilt  thou  not  wait 
For  me,  within  the  golden  gate ! 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLITHE  QUARTETTE 

[LOCKER,  DOBSON,  GOSSE,  AND  LANG.] 

THIS  is  the  poet's  twilight  shade, 

When  songs  inspired  no  longer  ring ; 
Forgot  is  Pan  in  glen  and  glade, 

And  mute,  Apollo's  glorious  string. 

The  muse  divine  hath  taken  wing 
To  unfrequented  heights  —  and  yet, 

While  critics  keen  are  caviling, 
We  hear  them  play  —  the  blithe  quartette  ! 

With  harps  from  morning-lands  estrayed, 
And  tunes  as  joyous  as  the  spring, 

A  minstrel  lover's  serenade, 
The  rondel  of  some  jovial  king, 
A  melody  whose  swirl  and  swing 

Our  pulses  all  a-dancing  set, 

A  jester's  catch  without  its  sting, 

We  hear  them  play  —  the  blithe  quartette  ! 

Staccato  measures  deftly  made 
Afar  their  brilliancy  to  fling  — 
S3 


54        Ballad  of  the  Blithe  Quartette 

Perfection  of  the  art  essayed, 

Each  note  a  flawless,  crystal  thing ; 
Gay  chords  with  laughter  echoing, 

And  some  that  leave  our  eyelids  wet ; 
Life's  heartsome  lays,  to  which  we  cling, 

We  hear  them  play  —  the  blithe  quartette  ! 

ENVOY. 

Kind  sirs,  let  us  this  solace  bring 
To  ease  our  souls  of  vain  regret : 

Though  noontide  poets  cease  to  sing, 

We  hear  them  play  —  the  blithe  quartette  ! 


MY  LADY   OF   MAKE-BELIEVE. 

MY  lady  hath  realms  of  wide  domain ; 

Castles  and  palaces  proud  and  fair ; 
A  dungeon-cell,  with  a  clanking  chain, 

A  lonely  turret,  with  winding  stair. 
Here  kings  and  courtiers  in  homage  stand, 

Here  prisoners  sigh  and  wait  reprieve ; 
And  she  rules  with  a  regal  sway  the  land, 

This  marvelous  land  of  Make-Believe. 

My  lady  hath  rank  of  all  degrees, 

From  proud  Queen  Bess  to  the  Beggar-Maid  ; 
To-day,  a  princess  from  over  the  seas, 

To-morrow,  a  gypsy  tattered  and  frayed. 
She  hath  countless  titles  that  come  at  call, 

Or  unto  her  courtly  station  cleave ; 
And  one  that  suiteth  her  best  of  all ;  — 

My  winsome  Lady  of  Make-Believe ! 

My  lady  hath  garments  of  stiff  brocade, 
Roses  of  silver  bespangle  them  o'er ; 

55 


56  My  Lady  of  Mahe-Believe 

Her  fan  for  the  Queen  of  the  East  was  made, 
Her  train  —  it  traineth  a  yard  or  more. 

She  hath  silks  and  ribbons  in  rich  array ; 
The  looms  of  Lyons  her  velvets  weave  j 

And  she  weareth  them  every  single  day  — 
This  vain  little  Lady  of  Make-Believe ! 

She  hath  Medici  collars  and  Honiton  lace ; 

She  doeth  her  hair  a  la  Pompadour  ; 
Or  hideth  her   "  bangs "    and  her  gleesome 
face 

Under  the  bonnets  her  grandame  wore. 
She  hath  bracelets,  and  charms,  and  chains,  and 
rings ; 

For  jewels  like  hers  a  king  might  grieve ; 
To  pauper  and  prince  her  wealth  she  flings  — 

My  gracious  Lady  of  Make-Believe  ! 

She  hath  waiting-women  who  stand  and  wait, 

Or  hasten  to  do  her  bidding  sweet ; 
She  hath  slaves  who  kneel  at  the  palace  gate, 

And  fear  the  stamp  of  her  tiny  feet ; 
And  many  a  knight  who  for  one  sweet  glance, 

Would  wear  her  favor  upon  his  sleeve, 
And  shiver  for  her  the  stoutest  lance  — 

My  haughty  Lady  of  Make-Believe. 


My  Lady  of  Make-Believe  57 

"  Illusions  are  vain,"  doth  the  preacher  say  ? 

"  Empty  and  idle  is  all  that  seems  "  ? 
"  The  pageant  passeth  "  ?     Ah,  well !  for  a  day 

No   shadow  hath   dimmed  her  blithesome 

dreams  j 
And  gentle  and  pure  are  her  guileless  arts, 

Though  her  name  should  ever  the  world  de 
ceive  j 
For  truest  of  true,  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 

Is  my  winsome  Lady  of  Make-Believe. 


WILD   VIOLETS. 

WHEN  clouds  from  April  skies  have  rolled, 
Though  earth  be  chill  and  winds  be  cold, 
And  woodland  ways  still  lone  and  wet, 
I  seek  the  first  wild  violet 
That  blooms  above  the  fragrant  mould. 

Thy  mien  is  proud,  thy  pulse  controlled ; 

Thou  wear'st  the  regal  roses  sold 

In  city  marts  ;  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 

Thou  wert  thyself  a  violet 

In  those  enchanted  days  of  old. 

So  send  I  —  am  I  over  bold  ?  — 
This  gift  to  grace  thy  bosom's  fold ; 
Believing  if  thy  hand  doth  set, 
Against  thy  heart,  a  violet, 
"An  old-time  love  may  yet  be  told. 
58 


JUNE. 

THE  month  of  roses,  forever  fair, 

Radiant,  miracle-working  June ! 
Laden  with  color  and  perfume  rare, 

Set  with  the  song  of  birds  atune ! 

The  blue  of  the  West  is  in  her  eyes, 

The  kiss  of  the  East  on  her  dewy  mouth, 

While  damask  and  white  on  her  bosom  lies 
The    bloom    that   breathes  of  the   burning 
South. 

With  joy  of  living,  her  voice  beguiles ; 

Love,  at  her  touch,  all  nature  sways ; 
Her  gladsome,  glorious  beauty  smiles, 

And  lo !  the  coming  of  perfect  days ! 
59 


JULY. 

SHE  comes  elate  her  own  to  seek, 
The  peerless  queen  of  summer  days, 

The  warm  winds  kiss  her  ruddy  cheek, 
The  earth  with  fruitage  lies  ablaze. 

Through  paths  of  endless  bloom  she  walks  ; 

With  tilted  lance  the  grasses  stir ; 
The  cornflowers  bend  on  slender  stalks 

In  sweet  obeisance  unto  her ; 

While  troops  of  daisies,  born  afield, 
Their  dainty  petaled  rims  unfold ; 

And  like  a  royal  legion  yield 

For  her  their  glowing  hearts  of  gold. 
60 


AUGUST. 

WHITE  noons  are  languorous  with  the  light ; 

Parched  lands  lie  sterile  in  the  dearth, 
Day  unto  day  and  night  to  night 

Pulsating  with  the  throes  of  earth. 

Only  in  some  remote  retreat, 

Hidden  afar  from  haunts  of  men, 

Faint  signs  of  life  our  senses  greet,  — 
A  whir  of  wings  from  cooling  fen ; 

Or,  where  the  sheltering  shadows  fall, 

The  water-lily  bares  its  breast ; 
And  slumberous  perfumes  rise  and  call 

A  world  resistless  back  to  rest. 
61 


A  ROSE  IN  AUTUMN. 

O  BOUNTEOUS  Summer,  we  take  thy  bloom, 
Thy  wealth  of  roses,  and  fling  them  by,  — 

Petals  of  flame  with  their  depths  agloom, 
And,  "  Largess,  largess  !  "  ever  cry. 

But  some  late  morn  when  the  gray  mists  rim 
The  meadows  beyond  the  garden  close, 

We  kiss  the  ghost  of  the  frost-flower  dim, 
And  pledge  our  hearts  for  one  perfect  rose. 
62 


TRANSMIGRATION. 

OUTSTRETCHED  and  stark  within  his  icy  shroud, 

The  Old  Year  said  : 

"  The  hour  has  come !  Thrust  back  the  surging 
crowd, 

I  too  am  dead ! 

"  Ended  alike  the  joy,  the  sin,  the  woe  j 

All  struggles  cease ; 
Into  the  Past  let  me  unhindered  go, 

And  rest  in  peace." 

The  Old  Year's  soul  with  Time  stood  face  to 
face, 

Encircled  fast ; 

"The   Past,"  saith  Time,  "hath  no   abiding 
place ! 

There  is  no  Past! 

"  There  is  no  New  Year !  This,  a  myth  to  fill 
The  minds  of  men  ! 
63 


64  Transmigration 

Thy  doom  is  transmigration  !  Thou  must  still 
Be  born  again, 

"  Again  and  yet  again,  in  some  new  guise, 

Till  changed  within, 
The  Old  Year  from  its  sepulchre  shall  rise 

Unstained  by  sin. 

"  Then  in  its  primal  purity  at  rest 

All  time  shall  be 
In  that  Nirvana  of  the  ages  blest, 

Eternity." 

The  solemn  bells  of  midnight  cease  to  toll ; 

White-robed  and  pale, 
The  Old  Year  riseth  as  a  new-born  soul  j 

And  men  cry:  "Haill" 


A   MOUNTAIN   HERITAGE. 

I  OWN  and  possess  it, 

This  mountain  of  mine  ! 
Exultant,  I  bless  it, 

In  shadow  and  shine  ! 
For  the  Titans  that  bore  it, 

And  flung  it  on  high  ; 
For  the  stars  that  gleam  o'er  it, 

Serene  in  the  sky ! 
For  its  shadowy,  solemn, 

Gray  forests  of  pine  ; 
For  each  moss-rifted  column, 

In  storm-shattered  line ; 
For  the  sweep  of  its  valleys, 

Its  dim,  haunted  glen, 
Where  the  elfin-king  rallies 

His  green-hooded  men ; 
For  the  ripple  and  laughter 

Of  brooklet  and  breeze ; 
For  the  thrill  that  comes  after, 

Aloft  through  the  trees ; 
65 


66  A  Mountain  Heritage 

For  the  rocks  split  asunder 

By  frost  and  by  sun, 
For  the  streams  that  glide  under, 

Green,  amber,  and  dun, 
And  crown  with  their  fountains, 

Life-giving,  divine, 
This  mountain  of  mountains, 

Majestic  —  and  mine  ! 

My  fathers  bequeathed  it 

From  sire  unto  son  ; 
They  living  received  it, 

And  passed  one  by  one 
To  glad  heights  eternal ; 

But  hoary  with  age, 
In  sunlight  supernal, 

Their  last  heritage, 
The  mountain  remaineth 

In  grandeur  alone  ; 
Its  glory  ne'er  waneth, 

Its  wealth  is  its  own. 

The  gay  world,  emboldened, 
Prays,  "  Yield  of  your  heights, 

Your  sunsets  engoldened, 
Your  summer-land  lights ! 


A  Mountain  Heritage  67 

Let  us  make  us  proud  portals 

Of  cedar  and  pine  !  "  — 
Stay  !  These  be  Immortals ! 

These  giants  of  mine  ! 
And  the  great  builder  crieth  : 

"  Give,  give  of  your  trees, 
For  the  stout  ship  that  flieth 

The  sail  on  the  seas  ! 
Let  us  bend  their  heads  hoary 

For  keel  and  for  mast ! "  — 
These  kings  in  their  glory  ? 

These  priests  of  the  past  ? 
Ah  !  the  gods  in  their  passion 

May  strike  at  their  heart, 
But  man  shall  not  fashion 

Their  shape  to  his  art ! 

I  own  and  possess  it, 

This  heritage  blest ! 
With  the  winds  that  caress  it, 

The  light  on  its  crest ; 
With  the  far  blue  above  it, 

In  infinite  line ; 
I  own  and  I  love  it, 

This  mountain  of  mine ! 
But  comes  a  heart  weary 

Of  worldly  bequest, 


68  A  Mountain  Heritage 

All  wistful  and  teary, 

And  longing  for  rest, 
For  the  balm  and  the  healing, 

In  fragrance  that  fall, 
For  the  welcome  revealing 

The  great  Soul  of  All ; 
For  nature's  still  places, 

For  solitude's  bar, 
For  God's  boundless  spaces, 

Above  and  afar ; 
For  the  sunset's  last  ember 

O'er  forests  of  pine,  — 
Dear  heart,  then  remember, 

The  mountain  is  thine ! 


GOLDENROD. 

O  GOLDENROD  —  wild,  lavish  goldenrod ! 
Thou  glad  perfection  of  the  summer  days  ! 

Lift  up  your  tasseled  heads 
And  nod  to  me,  as  in  the  old-time  ways ! 
Shake   out   the   gold-dust   from    your    tufted 
threads, 

And  dip  and  nod  ! 

Yes,  I  remember  how  the  warm  skies  hung 
Above  the  meadows  that  were  all  astir,  — 

Luxuriant  with  your  bloom  ! 
How  waxen-sweet  the  crested  blossoms  were, 
Like  flaming  censers,  fed  with  rare  perfume, 

And  softly  swung ! 

And  there  beyond  the  stretch  of  rugged  sod, 
Which  bares  its  tawny  breast  unto  the  sea, 

The  thick  brown  alders  grow, 
And  hide  the  wall  on  which  was  placed  for  me, 
All  wet  with  dew,  so  many  years  ago, 

Bright  goldenrod ! 
69 


70  Goldenrod 

Love's  first  shy  gift,  from  sun-browned,  boyish 

hands ! 
True  hands  and  brave,  in  toilsome,  work-day 

fields 

Grown  strong ;  yet  still  to  me 
Bearing  the  bloom  the  choicest  season  yields, 
As  on  we  fare  where  noontide  shadows  be 
In  pleasant  lands. 
^' 
But  I  have  longed  through  all  the  happy  years, 

0  glad,  wild  flower,  upon  these  slopes  aglow, 

Once  more  to  see  you  swing ; 

1  did  not  think  your  breath  would  choke  me  so  ! 
I  never  dreamed  your  dainty  airs  could  bring 

These  sudden  tears ! 


SONG  OF  THE  JENNIE. 

WHERE  skies  are  fair  the  Jennie  rides 
The  bosom  of  the  sparkling  lake ; 

The  breeze  sweeps  down  the  mountain-sides, 

Kisses  the  water  as  it  glides, 
And  ripples  in  her  wake. 

We  hear  the  stroke  of  rhythmic  oars, 

By  dainty  hands  dipped  low  and  swung, 
As  skims  the  boat  by  sunny  shores, 
And  where  the  gurgling  stream  outpours 
Its  rocks  and  reeds  among. 

Or  where  thy  mirrored  crest  beguiles, 
O  granite-browed  Megunticook, 

She  breaks  the  green  pool  into  smiles, 

And  nestles  midst  the  faery  isles 
That  to  thy  fastness  look. 

And  when,  at  dusk,  one  white  star  shines, 
Above  the  blue  lake's  mystic  rim, 


•j2  Song  of  the  Jennie 

The  Jennie  sweeps  across  the  lines 
That  fringe  the  shadowy  shore  of  pines, 
Into  the  twilight  dim. 

And  glad  ears  catch  the  liquid  notes 
Borne  lightly  on  the  joyous  air ; 

O  bonniest  of  bonny  boats, 

With  thee  she  sings,  with  thee  she  floats, 
The  maid  with  shining  hair ! 

Keep  loving  watch,  O  glorious  star, 

Above  the  mountain's  purple  crown, 
Till  swings  the  boat  within  the  bar, 
And  kindly  from  thine  heights  afar, 
O  great  Megunticook,  look  down  ! 


ENSHRINED. 

ADOWN  the  avenue  of  stately  trees, 

I  sit  and  gaze  and  gaze ! 
There  is  no  love-song  in  the  autumn  breeze, 

No  dream-light  in  the  haze. 
The  golden  glory  of  the  dying  leaves 

Lies  trodden  in  the  dust  j 
The  scarlet  creeper  droppeth  from  the  eaves 

At  every  fitful  gust ; 
The  dark,  wild  ivy  in  its  doom  receives 

The  mildew  and  the  rust. 

Oh,  glad,  exultant  Spring !  and  only  this 

For  many  a  promise  given  ! 
Oh,  blighting  sense  of  utter  dreariness 

After  the  breath  of  heaven  ! 
The  cloud-like  phantom  of  a  waning  moon 

Follows  the  setting  sun  ; 
The  distant  owlet  croaks  his  dismal  tune 

In  caverns  dank  and  dun. 
Oh,  ghost  of  idle  days  —  to  come  so  soon, 

As  though  the  race  were  won  ! 
73 


74  Enshrined 

I  have  no  new-made  grave  on  which  to  fling 

My  soul,  in  vain  regrets, 
Or  wait  until  the  luring  airs  of  spring 

Bring  back  the  violets  ; 
I  only  ask  for  this  lost  year  of  mine 

A  sacred,  fresh,  new  tomb ; 
I  have  no  fear  that  ever  touch  of  time 

Its  treasure  will  consume ; 
I  bring  sweet  spices  here,  and  oil  and  wine, 

And  many  a  rich  perfume. 

Beneath  the  pyramids  the  kings  lie  down, 

And  in  their  fastness  sleep ; 
Beneath  the  floods  the  royal  lilies  drown, 

And  none  are  left  to  weep. 
Embalmed  in  state,  alone  and  silently, 

Shall  lie  my  crowned  dead, 
My  regal  year,  whose  grandeur  none  shall  see, 

For  whom  no  tear  is  shed ;  — 
How  long  his  promised  length  of  days  shall  be, 

The  Lord  hath  never  said. 


SPOKEN   AT   SEA. 

ALL  men  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships : 
With  a  trembling  hand  and  faltering  lips, 
We  spread  our  sails  on  the  deep  unknown, 
Each  for  himself  and  each  alone. 

The  strong  tide  floweth  unceasingly  ; 

God  only  knoweth  our  destiny. 

And  ships  may  meet,  as  yours  and  mine  ; 
With  a  tender  gleam,  the  deck-lights  shine ; 
There  are  wind-swept  words  of  kindly  cheer, 
A  song,  a  smile,  perchance  a  tear ; 

Then  on,  for  the  ever-hurrying  sea 

Sings  of  the  shadowy  yet-to-be  ! 

And  the  light  dies  out  of  each  shining  track ; 

The  course  was  chosen  ;  we  turn  not  back ; 

No  hands  are  clasped  o'er  the  soundless  blue, 

But  hearts  though  severed  may  yet  be  true ; 
And  a  sweeter  story  ne'er  shall  be 
Than  of  memory's  ship-lights  spoken  at  sea. 
75 


THE   BATTLE-SONG. 
A  BALLAD  OF  BRITTANY. 

1758. 

WITH  eyes  afire  and  hearts  aflame,  the  valiant 
peasant  host, 

From  Treguier  and  good  Saint  Pol,  marched 
up  the  Breton  coast. 

"  Sing  us  our  father's  battle-song,"  the  stand 
ard-bearer  said, 

"  And  let  the  cursed  invader  know,  '  King  Ar 
thur  is  not  dead  ! ' 

The  song  that  every  mother's  tongue  and  every 
maiden  fair, 

A  thousand  years  and  more  have  sung  from 
Orne  to  Finisterre ! 

The  song  by  which  the  Cymric  chiefs  their 
ancient  battles  won, 

That  we,  as  they,  the  foe  may  slay  before  the 
turn  of  sun  ! 

'  A  foeman's  heart  for  every  eye !  a  head  for 
every  arm ! ' 

76 


The  Battle-Song  77 

The  valleys  and  the  mountain -tops  know  well 

the  wild  alarm  ! 
'  Three  lives  for  one  ! '  by  grassy  mound  and 

by  the  cromlech's  mould, 
And  '  blood  for  tears/  shall  dew  the  ground  as 

in  the  days  of  old ! 
Sing,    comrades    mine!    the    sea-lights   shine 

where  flies  the  banner  red ! 
As  long  ago,  we  greet  the  foe  :  '  King  Arthur 

is  not  dead ! '  " 

With  eyes  afire  and  hearts  aflame,  from  o'er 

the  English  Sea, 
A  band  of  brave  Welsh  mountaineers  marched 

down  through  Brittany. 
"  We  strike  for  England,"  was  the  cry,  "before 

the  turn  of  noon, 
But  live  or  die,  fling  out  on  high  the  ancient 

battle-tune  ! 
The  song  that  for  a  thousand  years  has  floated 

on  the  gale, 
From  Snowdon  heights  and  Harlech  lights  to 

far  Glamoran's  Vale ; 
The  song  our  Celtic  sires  loved,  in  days  that 

long  have  fled, 
That  mothers  to  their  first  born  sung :  '  King 

Arthur  is  not  dead ! ' " 


?8  The  Battle-Song 

And  like  a  royal  chant  of  old,  rang  out  the 
martial  strain  ; 

But  hark  !  —  a  pause  —  and  from  afar  comes 
back  the  grand  refrain  ! 

And  where  the  borders  of  Saint  Cast  their 
broken  ridges  trace, 

The  invader  and  the  Breton-born  stood  grimly 
face  to  face. 

"  King  Arthur  is  not  dead  ! "  the  one  in  rhyth 
mic  cadence  cries ; 

"  King  Arthur  is  not  dead  —  not  dead  !  "  the 
Breton  host  replies. 

"Halt!    fire!"    the   English   captain    shouts. 

Nor  hand  nor  musket  stirred ; 
And  "  Fire  !  "  rings  down  the  Breton    lines ; 

yet  no  man  heeds  the  word  ; 
For  all  who  march  to  Arthur's  call  are  of  one 

kith  and  kin ; 
No  feud  have  they,  no  foe  to  slay,  no  strife  to 

lose  or  win  ! 
But  heart  to   heart,   and  hand  to   hand,  the 

weeping  soldiers  stood, 
Whose  one  ancestral  song  had  proved  their 

common  brotherhood. 
Ay !  tears  for  blood  !     Thus  shall  it  be  from 

Orne  to  Finisterre, 


The  Battle-Song  79 

With  love  for  hate,  from  Snowdon's  hills  unto 

Glamoran  fair, 
And  peace  for  strife,  throughout  the  world,  and 

right  in  place  of  wrong, 
When    men    shall    learn     their    brotherhood 

through  one  Immortal  Song. 


PROPHET  AND  POET. 

I. 
THE   PROPHET. 

SCENE    IN    THE    COURT    OF    THE    ROYAL    PALACE 
AT   GRANADA,    A.  D.    1194. 

PROPHETIC  silence  broods  o'er  Andaluz : 
The  stately  palms  lift  up  their  crowned  heads 
And  listen,  listen ;  while  the  vines,  deep  set 
In  golden  mellowness,  cling  close  and  mute 
Unto  the  warm  green  bosom  of  the  hills 
In  hushed  expectancy.     Beyond  the  far 
Sierras,  moon  and  stars  swing  low  and  fade, 
Not  in  a  liquid  opal-tinted  dawn 
Whose  blue  and  crimson  meet  and  blend  and 

pale 

And  faintly  glow  again,  but  in  the  full, 
Triumphant  coming  of  a  day  that  bursts 
Upon  a  waiting  world  in  perfectness, 
And  spreadeth  sunshine  royally !  Ay,  such 
A  day  as  only  breaks  when  Moslem  kings 
Are  born  ! 

All  through  the  night  each  gilded  dome 
80 


Prophet  and  Poet  81 

And  frosted  minaret  had  flashed,  alight 

With  heaven's   transcendent  glow  j  for   signs 

more  rare 

And  potent  ne'er  had  hung  o'er  princely  head 
Than  marked  the  advent  of  the  babe  vouch 
safed 

To  Nasar's  line  —  the  babe  Alhamar  named  ! 
And   when,   at   dawn,  the   jagged   mountains 

veiled 

Their  sharp,  stark  faces  in  the  roseate  hues 
Which  make  the  hoary  hills  forever  young, 
When  shrill-voiced  sentinels  aroused  the  world 
From  slumber  unto  prayer,  then  all  the  grand, 
High  places,  which  for  aye  shall  tell  that  God 
Is  great,  made  answer  to  a  new  refrain 
In  solemn  ecstasy.     From  crag  to  crag, 
Each  rock  set  Atalaya  flung  the  shout, 
And  ere  the  Darro's  silver  threaded  net 
Had  caught  the  noontide  glimmer  in  its  mesh, 
Granada's  farthest  vale  had  learned  — "  There  is 
No  God  but  God !  "  and  —  "  Nasar's  king  is 
born ! " 

Throw  open  wide  the  royal  gate ! 
The  court  astrologers  unto  the  spacious  hall 
descend ; 


82  Prophet  and  Poet 

While  eager  multitudes  their  coming  wait 
And  like  tall,  wind-swept  rushes  sway  and 
bend 

In  feverish  delight. 
The  priestly  hems, 
Broidered   with   Oriental   signs,    and    thickly, 

quaintly  hung 

With  fringed  gold  and  many  brilliant  gems, 
Clink    down   the    marble    stairs   and    trail 

among 

Close-crowded  tunics,  cool  and  white. 
"  Who  greater  is,"  the  prophets  cry, 
"Than    Prince   Alhamar,    or    shall   be,  while 

stars  portentous  roll  ?  " 
And  slow  they  swing  their  mystic  wands  on 

high, 

And  dip  their  sharpened  cusps  to  mark  the 
scroll 

With  his  nativity. 
"  A  proud  career 
The  stars  predict  for   Nasar's   prince,"  they 

say.     "  The  years  shall  send 
Him  every  kingly  gift ;  and  bard  and  seer 
Recount  his  fame  till  Moslem  kingdoms  end ; 
A  prince  beloved  in  peace  is  he  : 
Invincible  in  war  ! " 


Prophet  and  Poet  83 

"  El  Ghalib  !  "  all  the  people  shout.     "  El  Gha- 

lib  !  Conqueror  !  " 

"  There  is  no  conqueror  save  God  !  "     In  calm 
And  measured  accents,  as  from  one  who  stands 
Serene  above  the  tangled  ways  of  men, 
The  solemn  words  upon  the  startled  throng 
Descend.     The    mad,    wild    clangor    ends    in 

strange, 

Oppressive  silence.     Who  shall  dare  gainsay 
The  truth  of  Moslem  Writ  ?     Yet  as  the  gaunt, 
Gray-bearded  man,  bowed  down  with  age  and 

leagues 

Of  dusty  travel,  stands  within  their  midst, 
The  court  magicians  glance  at  him  askance ; 
Then  towards  the  Kebla  turn  their  steadfast 

eyes 

As  if  for  morning  prayer.     So  all  the  throng, 
In    mocking    mood,    makes   way  and    stands 

agape, 

While  they  who  catch  the  scornful  cue  exclaim, 
"  Lo  !  here  a  prophet  is  !  See  how  his  staff, 
Crooked  like  an  Almucan tar's  rod,  hath  turned 
Unto  the  East !     Behold  his  girdle  wrought 
Of  leathern  fragments,  set  with  Curie  signs 
Long  since  forgot  in  Araby ;  and  robes 
So  ancient  in  their  grimy  woof,  the  great 


84  PropM  and  Poet 

Mohammed  may  himself  have  worn  them  ere 
He  slept !     A  son  of  wonders  truly  he  ! 
Shall  he  not  prophesy  ? " 

Ay !  prophesy ! 

Who  fitter  for  the  task  than  he  who  seven 
Times  seventy  rounds   hath   made  with   san 
daled  feet, 

About  the  Caaba's  shrine,  and  prostrate,  kissed 
The  Holy  Stone  with  each  required  prayer  ? 
Who,  living  threescore   years   and   ten,  hath 

drank 

From  Zem  Zem's  waters  once  for  every  year, 
And  home  returning,  hung  his  open  tent 
With  Mecca's  aloe-bloom  ?    To  what  more  true, 
More  faithful  son  should  Allah  grant  the  gift 
Divine  of  prophecy  ? 

Closer  around 

The  aged  seer  crowded  the  mocking  throng. 
The   wrinkled    face   shone   fair.     The  feeble 

frame 

Majestic  grew  through  inspiration's  light. 
"  O  Moslems  !     Ye  do  well  to  learn  of  great 
Alhamar's  reign  !    Stretch  out  your  eager  arms 
And  clasp  the  vision  of  exultant  power 
That  cometh  at  his  beck !     Let  flash  your  keen 
Blue  scimitars,  and  shout  as  pleaseth  men 


Prophet  and  Poet  85 

For  triumphs  yet  to  be !     But  days  are  near 
When   Islam's  haughty  sons  shall  learn   that 

pride 

Has  heights  before  unknown  •  and  victory 
Is  only  his  who  conquers  in  defeat. 
Beneath  a  crown  all  kings  are  great ;  but  he 
Who  crownless  makes  the  nation's  foe  its  friend 
Alone  hath  royalty !     O  children,  born 
Of  princes  and  by  prophets  taught,  think  ye 
Of  this  when  unto  Islam's  hated  foe 
The  great  Alhamar  kneels  ! " 

Like  winds 

Among  the.rustling  corn,  a  murmur  rose 
And  ran.     "  A  Moor  to  unbelievers  yield  ! 
A  Moslem  monarch  sue  for  grace  at  whose 
Glad  birth-hour  Jupiter  hath  smiled  ?     A  son 
Of  Beni  Nasar  kiss  the  dust  while  gleams 
The  Moorish  spear  ?  "     And  loud  and  louder 

grew 

.  The  clamor  of  the  faithless  multitude, 
By  sneers  and  threats  of  wily  craftsmen  led, 
Till  mad  with  frenzied  unbelief,  they  hurled 
The  Prophet  from  the  city's  outer  gate, 
And  stoned  him  unto  death. 

This  is  the  tale 

Of  Aben  Hared.     Unto  God  all  men 
Belong.     To  Him  may  we  in  peace  return  ! 


86  Prophet  and  Poet 

II. 
THE  POET. 

TIME,  TWO  HUNDRED  YEARS  LATER  :   IN  A  COURT 
OF   THE   ALHAMBRA,    A   MINSTREL   SINGS. 

Yusef  of  Nasar  reigneth ;  and  the  City  of  the 
Fountains 

Like  a  white-robed  queen  is  throned  in  her  sun 
lit  majesty; 

And,  like  white-robed  maids-in-waiting,  behind 
her  stand  the  mountains, 

With  their  snowy  clustered  summits,  keeping 
lookout  o'er  the  sea. 

And  the  massive,  red  Alhambra,  with  its  alca 
zar  and  towers, 

Guards  the  happy,  trustful  Vega,  stretching 
leagues  and  leagues  away, 

Content  and  trustful  ever,  though  the  war-sign 
lifts  or  lowers, 

With  its  fiery  eyes  in  night-time,  and  its  smoky 
haze  by  day. 

Secure  within  the  valley,  the  cool  wind  wooes 

the  spirit 
Of  the  sunny  tropic  regions  with  a  promise  soft 

and  sweet ; 


Prophet  and  Poet  87 

But  the  aloes  bend  their  heads,  and  the  listen 
ing  vine-leaves  hear  it, 

And  tell  it  to  the  hillsides  and  the  waters  at 
their  feet. 

Then  the  noisy,  dashing  Darro  down  its  rocky 

chasm  dances, 
And  brings  a  hundred  streamlets  on  the  snowy 

mountains  fed ; 
While  the  blushing  vineyards  reddened  with  the 

summer's  ardent  glances, 
Cry,  "  'T  is  we  who  fill  the  wine-cups  !    Let  the 

wind  and  sun  be  wed !  " 

Oh !  the  breath  of  burning  fragrance  that  across 

the  southern  ocean, 
Comes  to  greet  the  cool  forget-me-nots  and 

dewy  asphodels ! 
Oh !  silvered  grain-fields  swung  with  an  innate, 

rhythmic  motion  ! 
Oh !  tropic  fruits  that  dip  and  nod  like  golden 

marriage-bells ! 

Happy  art  thou,  fair  Granada,  where  the  North 
and  South  have  striven 

Each  with  its  rarest  offering  to  grace  the  wed 
ding  feast ! 


88  Prophet  and  Poet 

Happy  hills  and  happy  valleys,  where  the  rug 
ged  West  has  given 

Its  furrowed  cheek  and  bosom  to  the  kisses  of 
the  East ! 

Blest  for  aye  the  favored  city  with  its  thousand 
towers  gilded 

And  lifting  each  its  minaret  beneath  the  am 
bient  skies,  — 

The  skies  above  Granada,  in  whose  lucid 
heights  are  builded 

The  moon-tipped  domes  and  spires  of  the 
Prophet's  Paradise ! 

Thus  in  the  Moorish  court  the  Poet  chanted, 
When   o'er    the    marble    floor    each    slender 

column 
Had   marked    its    slanting    shadow,    and   the 

gleams 
Of  moonlight  fell,   through   fretted  lace-work 

stealing, 

And  through  the  silvered  traceries,  revealing 
The  rare,  quaint  fancy  of  Arabian  dreams. 

He  had  come  in,  unheeded  and  undaunted, 
Himself  so  like  a  shadow  dark  and  solemn, 


Prophet  and  Poet  89 

In  robes    of    camel's    hair    through    deserts 

trailed ; 

Silent  he  stood  with  aspect  stern  and  dreary, 
Till  of  the  revel  all  the  throng  grown  weary, 
Had  with  delight  the  strange  musician  hailed. 

"Sing  of  Granada!"   prayed   the   fair  —  the 

knighted ; 

And  softly  dripped,  in  founts  of  alabaster, 
Wine-tinted  waters,  while  the  minstrel  sung ; 
"  Of  great  Alhamar!  "  cried  the  king  applauding, 
A  song  of  war,  his  noblest  triumph  lauding, 
In  days  when  Cross  with  Crescent  clashed  and 

swung. 

As  with  a  flash,  the  poet's  dark  eyes  lighted ; 
And  from  its  place  beside  the  dim  pilaster 
He  proudly  caught  his  sweet-stringed  instru 
ment  ; 

No  Moslem  scimitar  unused  to  sheathing, 
No  battle-axe  of  Moorish  onslaught  breathing, 
Could  to  its  chords  a  wilder  strain  have  lent. 

And  turbaned  knights  let  fall  their  half-drained 

glasses, 
And  ladies  fair  behind  their  gem-lit  veiling, 


go  Prophet  and  Poet 

The  closer  shrank,  eager  and  yet  afraid, 

As  through  the  dim  hall,  drifting  like  a  vision, 

The  swift  word-painting   moved   to   airs   ely- 

sian 
Like  pictured  hangings  by  enchantment  swayed. 

They  see,  as  men  in  dreams,  the  mountain 
passes, 

And  lance  and  banderole  where  wild  vines 
trailing 

Alone  had  choked  the  long  unused  defiles  ; 

While  fair  Granada,  like  a  golden-hearted, 

O'er-ripe  pomegranate  from  its  stem  half- 
parted, 

Within  the  greedy  gaze  of  Castile  smiles. 

And  Christian  foe  beneath  the  ramparts  sit- 

teth,  — 
Jaen,  the  valiant,   through  the  long  months 

making 

Its  brave  defense  with  many  a  fight  and  feint ; 
But  ghastly  famine  stalks  above  the  moating, 
And  o'er  the  walls,  thin,   bloodless   spectres 
k  floating, 

Bear  fateful  signs  to  Ferdinand  the  Saint. 


Prophet  and  Poet  91 

Then  over  all  a  sudden  grayness  flitteth 

From  which  one  form  its  shapeless  figure 
taking, 

Drifts  like  a  phantom  o'er  the  shrouded  plain. 

'T  is  proud  Alhamar !  See  !  they  catch  the 
glimmer, 

Beyond  Jaen  where  festive  tent-lights  shim 
mer ! — 

Still  through  the  dim  court  floats  the  wild 
refrain : 

Woe  to  Granada  !     What  now  are  the  towers, 
That  rise  from  her  ramparts  massive  and  red  t 
Woe  to  Granada  I     What  now  are  her  bowers 
But  sepulchred  gardens   with  bloom  for  the 
dead! 

O  valleys !    look  upward    where    city    lights 

glisten  ! 

Is  there  no  help  where  the  white  crescents  glow  ? 
O  ill-fated  city  !  look  downward  and  listen  ! 
Hear  ye  no  tidings  of  good  from  below  ? 

Ay !    down  from   Granada  a  lone   horseman 

goeth ! 
Can  rone  avail  aught  where  the  chosen  host 

fails  ? 


92  Prophet  and  Poet 

Who  gains  from  the  deep  sea  its  secret  ?  — 

Who  knoweth 
The  soul  of  a  king  till  misfortune  assails  ? 

On,  on,  through  the  night,  he  is  breathlessly 

speeding, 

On  where  the  swift  Xenil  silently  steals, 
Still  on,  through  the  camp   revel,  mute  and 

unheeding, 
Till  low  at  the  feet  of  the  Christian  he  kneels. 

"  I  am  Alhamar !     Alas,  what  remaineth 

Of  greatness,  since  spent  is  the  struggle,  and 

vain ! 
What  for  the  proud  heart  or  false  hand  that 

staineth 
Granada's   white   marbles   with  blood  of  the 

slain ! 

"Thou   art   the   Castilian!      Oh!    take   as   a 

token 

Of  Moslem  allegiance  the  homage  we  bring, 
But  spare  thou  the  gates  of  the  city  unbroken, 
I  plead  for  my  children  as  King  unto  King !  " 

And  back  from  the  valley  in  lingering  sweetness 
The  glad  voices  ring  from  the  hills  to  the  sea, 


Prophet  and  Poet  93 

With  the  echoing  song  in  its  joyful  complete 
ness, 
"  Granada  is  ransomed  !     Granada  is  free  !  " 

"  Thou  singest  well !    O  dusky  Arab  stranger !  " 
The  monarch  said,  while  eyes  tear-dimmed  with 

pity, 

Beneath  long  lashes  tremulously  gleamed  ; 
"Poor,    poor    indeed,  were   Islam's    boasted 

cluster 

Of  stout-walled  cities  had  it  missed  the  lustre 
Of  fair  Granada  by  her  king  redeemed ! 

"How    wrote     Mohammed    in    the    days    of 

danger  ? 

'  To  him  who  conquers  pride,  and,  for  the  city, 
Humbleth  himself,  doth  victory  belong ! ' 
Bring  forth  the   cups  with  prisoned  sunlight 

shining, 

Drink  to  Alhamar  while  fair  hands  are  twining 
The  myrtle-crown  for  singer  and  for  song  ! " 

Then  once  again  the  flash,  as  glowing  embers, 
Long-pent  and  smothered,  lit  anew  the  fire 
Which  in  the  singer's  dusky  eyes  had  burned. 
"  Take  ye  your  crown  with  scorn  too  deep  for 
curses ! 


94  Prophet  and  Poet 

Think  ye,  O  haughty  Moors,  that  tinkling  verses 
Are    fitly    crowned    where    prophecies    were 
spurned  ! 

"  Perchance  the  fickle  Moslem  still  remembers 
The  story,  handed  down  from  sire  to  sire, 
Of  Aben  Hared  —  blest  for  aye  his  name  ! 
The  cold,  dead  past  forgetteth  not  its  sorrow, 
Though  what  ye   curse   to-day,  ye  praise  to 
morrow, 
For  truth  is  truth,  forevermore  the  same ! 

"  Can  great  Alhamar's  reign  be  any  greater, 
In  these  fair  days  when  Nasar's  line  is  reaping 
The  glory  gathered  from  his  deeds  of  old  ? 
Can  proud  fulfillment,  looking  backward,  render 
Aught  more  ennobling,  more  divinely  tender, 
Than  Aben  Hared  for  your  King  foretold  ? 

"  The  scales  of  justice  balance  soon  or  later ! 
God's  dew  and  sunshine  even  yet  are  keeping 
The  grasses  green  above  the  Prophet's  bones ; 
While    kingly    grace    the    myrtle -crown    has 

meeted 

For  gift  of  song  where  prophecy  was  greeted 
In    years  gone  by,   with    cursing    and    with 

stones ! 


Prophet  and  Poet  95 

"  I  from  the  sons  of  Hared  am  descended  — 

As  ye  from  Nasar  /"  —  Then  with  one  stern 

gesture 

The  singer  turned,  like  some  avenging  fate  ; 
And  'neath  the  wan  moon  faintly  drifting  o'er 

them, 
Nasar's  proud  children  seemed  to  see  before 

them 
The  stark,  dead  prophet  at  their  city's  gate. 

So  like  a  ghost  whose  messages  are  ended, 
The  Poet  vanished,  and  his  sombre  vesture 
Fluttered  and  faded  where  the  darkness 

moaned,  — 
The  awful  darkness  which  seemed  thrilled  and 

beating 

With  scornful   echoes,   o'er  and  o'er  repeat 
ing  :  — 

"  The  son   of    Hared  —  whom    your   fathers 
stoned ! " 


GLENDARE. 

THE  wild  torrents  plunge  o'er  the  falls  of  Glen- 
dare, 
The  cliffs  of  Glendarock  hang  high  with  a 

frown, 

And  night  from  the  hill-tops  sodden  and  bare, 
In  its  gray  sleety  cloak  with  the  storm-wind 
comes  down. 

Roy  of  the  Highlands,  he  hastes  from  the  seas, 
But  my  Lady  Glendare  no  longer  can  wait ; 
Like  a  wan,  spectral  shape  in  the  shadow  she 

flees, 

While  the  warden  sleeps  sound  at  the  stout 
castle-gate. 

Faster,  oh,  faster !  my  Lady  Glendare  ! 

Thy  black-hearted  lover  will  close  on  thee 

soon ! 

He  rideth  behind  on  the  wings  of  the  air, 
As  the  black-hearted  tempest  rides  after  the 
moon. 

96 


Glendare  97 

And  faster,  my  lad,  from  the  free  Highland 

hill! 
Let  each  sail  to  the  winds  !  let  each  breath  be 

a  prayer ! 
For  her  life-blood  runs  slow  and  her  life-blood 

runs  chill ; 

She  hath  beckoned  to  death  —  my  Lady  Glen- 
dare  ! 

She  heareth  the  clangor  of  armor  behind, 
The  tramping  of   horsemen   afar   o'er  the 

land, 

But  never  the  flapping  of  sails  in  the  wind, 
Or  the  noise  of  the  keel  as  it  grates  on  the 
sand. 

The  wild  torrents  plunge  o'er  the  falls  of  Glen- 
dare  j 

There  are  horsemen  above,  there  are  boat 
men  below, 
But  the  waters  have  tangled  my  lady's  bright 

hair, 

Her  bosom  is  cold  as  the  winter's  white 
snow. 


9#  Glendare 

She  hears  not  the  voice  of  her  brave  Highland 

lad, 

She  heeds  not,  she  hears  not,  his  wail  of  de 
spair  ; 
Wrap  her   deftly,  though   late,  in  the  bright 

Scottish  plaid  — 
My  sweet,  winsome  lady,  my  Lady  Glendare  ! 


THE   PHANTOM   FLAG. 

A  SPOT  far  up  the  mountain, 

A  strange  and  awesome  place, 
With  the  great  deep  sky  o'erhanging 

The  narrow,  jagged  space, 
Whence  the  long,  far-reaching  valley 

Doth  wind  its  way  adown 
Till  the  blue  skies  kiss  the  greensward, 

And  the  plains  with  sunlight  crown. 

A  glorious  place,  where  liberty 

Shall  give  her  children  breath, 
Ere  she  sends  them  down  below  to  play 

The  game  of  life  and  death. 
And  the  blue-clad,  dusty  army 

In  its  winding  path  stood  still, 
While  its  glowing  pulses  trembled 

With  a  wild  unearthly  thrill. 

"  Let  me  shout  once  more  for  freedom !  " 
The  color-bearer  said : 
99 


ioo  The  Phantom  Flag 

"  I  can  hear  the  death-shot  rattle, 

I  can  feel  the  victor's  tread ! 
Look  !  the  battle-spirits  gather ! 

Their  hot  wings  hover  near ! 
When  my  soul  goes  up  to  glory,  boys, 

I  '11  plant  the  Old  Flag  here  ! " 

Did  ye  read,  O  Union  children, 

How  burst  the  battle  clouds  ? 
Did  ye  know  how  fell  the  hero, 

'Neath  the  holiest  of  shrouds  ? 
Saw  ye  far  up  the  mountain 

The  spectral  Stripes  and  Stars, 
When  the  phantom  arm  unfurled  the  flag, 

And  spread  its  crimson  bars  ? 

To-day  the  Northbound  traveler, 

From  lips  that  hold  it  true, 
Still  hears  the  witching  story 

Of  the  crimson  and  the  blue  ; 
Of  blood-stained  folds  that  floated 

O'er  the  mountain's  rocky  height, 
Of  stars  that  paled  with  those  of  heaven 

And  vanished  into  night. 


The  Phantom  Flag  '         '   101 

And  the  mountain  lad  treads  softly 

As  he  guides  the  cattle  home, 
Half  in  fear  and  half  in  longing, 

Through  the  twilight's  dusky  gloam. 
And  the  pious  valley  farmer, 

As  the  sunset  pennons  wave, 
Bows  a  reverent  head  and  whispers  : 

"  May  the  God  of  battles  save ! " 


WRECKED. 

AT  early  dawn, 

When  first  the  rays  of  Orient  light 
Bid  glowing  welcome  to  the  star-pale  morn 
And  sweet  farewell  to  night ; 

When  distant  seas 

Lie  blue  and  dim  beyond  the  emerald  bay, 
And  peaceful  wavelets  coyly  kiss  the  breeze, 
The  while  in  idle  play ; 

When  all  the  earth 

Is  fresh  and  brave,  our  ghostly  phantoms  flee, 
And  day  renewed  to  stalwart  hope  gives  birth 
In  strong  reality. 

And  so  the  men 

Lift  up  the  anchor  and  unfurl  the  sails ; 
"  Oh,  speed  them ! "  wives  and  children  pray 
again, 

"  Ye  prosperous  gales ! " 

102 


Wrecked  103 

And  with  a  song 

The  fisherman  goes  sailing  to  the  west ; 
For  life  is  love,  and  love  divinely  long ; 
And  life  with  love  is  blest. 

But  with  a  moan, 

The  fisher's  wife  sits  sobbing  under  breath  j 
For  life  is  love,  yet  love  must  die  alone, 
And  loveless  life  is  death. 

O  sea-gulls  gray ! 

What  mean  your  voices  shrilling  with  despair, 
As  evening's  calm  drops  o'er  the  little  bay 
Beneath  the  leaden  air  ? 

O  men  with  ships, 

Who  on  the  deep  have  journeyed  up  and  down, 
Have  ye  no  answer  for  the  questioning  lips 
Within  this  quaint  old  town  ? 

For  night  has  come, 

And  grim  portentous  shapes  flit  wildly  by ; 
And  cowering   hearts  are    smitten   and   grow 
dumb 

In  silent  agony. 


W4  Wrecked 

Sweet  sleep  and  deep 
God  gives  to  his  beloved  when  life  is  o'er ; 
While  storm-tossed  waves   and  angry  billows 
sweep 

For  aye  on  life's  rough  shore. 

Yet  kindly  souls, 

Sweet  Pity's  guests,  wail  o'er  the  dead  to 
day  :  — 

Bow  down,  my  heart,  where  grief's  wild  torrent 
rolls, 

And  for  the  living  pray ! 


NOT  DEAD,   BUT   SLEEPING. 

BEAUTIFUL  Summer  at  rest  lieth  low ; 

On  the  bare  brown  earth  she  pillowed  her 

head, 
And  the  mourners,  moving  passive  and  slow, 

Have  chanted  their  requiem  over  the  dead. 
Her  blue-veined  lids  are  rimmed  with  frost, 

The  light  has  gone  from  her  azure  eyes  ; 
The  rose  from  her  lips  forever  is  lost, 

Stark  on  the  cold  dark  sod  she  lies. 

The  autumn  flowers  swung  out  to  the  breeze 

Their  gorgeous  bloom  of  yellow  and  red, 
And  whispered  low  to  the  trees,  "  O  trees  ! 

Let  not  the  world  know  Summer  is  dead  ! " 
But  the  great  trees  drooped  in  the  dreary  spell, 

And  down  from  the  clouds  of  molten  lead, 
The  shivering,  quivering  rain-drops  fell, 

And  night-winds  echoed,  "  Summer  is  dead ! " 

Oh,  never  had  Death  in  all  that  lie 
On  his  low,  damp  shrine  a  form  more  fair  ! 
105 


io6  Not  Dead,  but  Sleeping 

Oh,  never  were  flowers  so  loth  to  die 

As  the  flowers  that  died  in  her  sunny  hair. 

Fall  softly,  ye  winding-sheets  of  snow, 
Fall  softly  over  her  lowly  bed ! 

Never  was  earth  so  full  of  woe  — 
Beautiful  Summer  is  dead  —  is  dead  ! 

Dead  ?  was  the  Maker  mightier  when 

The  new-born  stars  first  gemmed  the  skies  ? 
Is  He  shorn  of  his  grace,  O  children  of  men, 

Who  said  to  the  maiden,  "  Arise,  arise  ? " 
The  arm  of  Omnipotence  ever  keeps 

The  miracle  age  renewed  in  strength : 
The   maid    is   not   dead !     she    sleeps  —  but 
sleeps, 

In  fullness  of  bloom  to  rise  at  length. 


AFTER  THE  VICTORY 

THE  conqueror's  song  hath  a  minor  key, 
The  sound  of  a  dirge  in  its  symphony ; 
The  voice  grows  hoarse  with  the  victor's  cry, 
There  are  jarring  notes  when  its  echoes  die ; 
"  What  matter  ?  "  comes  back  in  stern  reply. 
The  streams  must  run  if  the  seas  be  fed, 
Stout  hearts  be  broken,  so  states  are  wed  ! 
Red   roses  are  crushed  'neath  the   soldier's 

tread, 

And  the  white  are  scarce  enough  for  the  dead. 
All  rudely  heaped  in  the  same  low  grave, 
Are  the  lovers  and  sons  we  gladly  gave  ; 
Above  them  the  Stars  of  the  Union  wave  ! 
And  faint  in  the  sky  the  war-cloud  drips, 
While  Honor,  unsullied,  her  finger-tips 
Places,  in  peace,  upon  loyal  lips. 
May  He,  who  sees  with  omniscient  ken, 
After  the  victory,  save  !    Amen  / 
107 


MERCEDES. 
DIED  JUNE  26,  1878. 

WE  saw  thee  crowned  !     Love  came  with  royal 

hands 
To  thee,   Mercedes.     All  that  earth  held 

rare 

In  precious  stuffs,  and  gems  from  far-off  lands, 
They  brought  for  thee ;  and  thou  wert  young 
and  fair. 

So  sweet  thy  fate,  the  orange  blossoms  seemed 
More  blest  in  every  clime  on  this  fair  year  • 

And  maidens  of  their  own  betrothals  dreamed 
More  tenderly,  thy  wedding-bells  to  hear. 

Yet  all  the  while,  fingers  unseen  had  traced, 

Among  the  stars,  thy  throne  and  coronet :  — 
O    sweet   young   queen,   in    realms    celestial 

placed, 

For  thee  our  eyes  with  blinding  tears  are 
wet! 

108 


Mercedes  709 

We  cannot  see  beyond  the  gates  afar, 

Nor  hear  the  heavenly  symphony's  refrain  ; 

We  stand  appalled  where  death  and  sorrow 

are, 
And  weep  in  kinship  with  the  heart  of  Spain. 


THE  MEED  OF  GENIUS. 
IN  THE  CAMPO  SANTO. 

THESE  pictures  were  Benozzo's.  His  the  art 
That  made  all  Pisa  jubilant,  't  is  said  j 

And  his  reward  ?  Oh !  list,  expectant  heart ! 
This  narrow  space  where  he  might  rest  when 

dead. 

no 


SIMON   OF  GYRENE. 

UNKNOWN,  unheralded,  yet  marked  by  fate, 
From  lands  afar,  he  of  Gyrene  came, 
Where  mad  processions  led  by  men  aflame 
With  rage  and  cursing,  from  the  city's  gate 
Drag  forth  the  Christ ! 

But  yesterday,  they  wait 
The  Master  with  glad  palms ;  they  shout  his 

name, 

They  hang  upon  his  lips.     To-day,  with  shame 
And  scourge,  'tis  "Crucify!"     Then,  neither 

late 

Nor  soon,  chosen  of  all  the  world,  of  loss 
Or  gain  unconscious,  though  his  Lord  may  die, 
The  chance  Cyrenian  comes  to  bear  the  cross. 
Oh,  glorious  lot !     Oh,  blest  of  passers-by ! 
Nor  earth,  nor  heaven,  through  endless  ages 

dim, 

Can  yield  another  what  was  laid  on  him  ! 
in 


A   CHILD'S   QUESTION. 

"  WHAT  is  it  to  be  dead  ? "     O  Life, 

Close-held  within  my  own, 
What  foul  breath  in  the  air  is  rife  ? 

What  voice  malign,  unknown, 
Hath  dared  this  whisper  faint  and  dread, 
"  What  is  —  what  is  it  to  be  dead  ? " 

Who  told  you  that  the  song-bird  died  ? 

They  had  no  right  to  say 
This  to  my  child  —  I  know  we  cried 

When  Robin  "  went  away ; " 
But  this  strange  thing  we  never  said, 
That  what  we  loved  so  could  be  dead. 

Give  me  your  hands,  my  only  boy ! 

Health  throbs  in  every  vein  ; 
Thou  hast  not  dreamed  of  earth's  alloy, 

Nor  stepped  where  guilt  has  lain ; 
O  sweet  young  life  !     O  baby  breath  ! 
What  hast  thou  now  to  do  with  death  ? 

112 


A  Child's  Question  113 

I  even  framed  for  thy  dear  sake 

Anew  the  childish  prayer, 
Lest,  "  If  I  die  before  I  wake," 

Should  rouse  a  thought  or  care. 
Mother  of  Christ,  was  this  a  sin  — 
To  watch  where  death  might  enter  in  ? 

Too  late !    The  Angel  of  the  Flame 
Relentless  cries :  "  Go  hence  !  " 

I  think  of  Eden's  sin  and  shame ; 
I  gaze  —  on  innocence  ! 

And  still  the  curse  ?     Must  I  arise 

And  lead  my  own  from  Paradise ! 

I  see  the  wide,  the  awful  world 

Loom  up  beyond  the  gate ; 
I  see  his  pure  soul  tossed  and  whirled  — 

My  child  !     I  pray  thee  wait ! 
Ask  me  not  what  the  Angel  saith  ; 
My  soul  this  day  hath  tasted  death  ! 


DOLOROSA. 

MADONNA,  hallowed  with  thy  weight  of  woe, 
We  stricken  mothers  turn  our  souls  to  thine  ; 
We  lift  our  faces  where  thy  pure  eyes  shine, 
And  wonder  if  it  eased  thy  grief  to  know 
Thy  son,  the  Christ  —  the  dead  Christ  —  was 
divine ! 

Mother  of  Sorrow  !    Ah,  but  didst  thou  know  ? 
God  gave  us  each  our  children,  and  we  call 
Them  ours,  our  own  !     How  then  could  it  be 
fall 

That  in  thy  motherhood  thou  loved  us  so 
Thou  gavest  Him,  thy  Babe,  to  die  for  all ! 

Now  thou  art  crowned  !     And  yet  for  mortal 

sake, 

In  sympathy  ineffable,  sublime, 
Thy  tears  fall  earthward  from   the   heavenly 

clime. 

O  sainted  Grief  !  may  thy  sad  heart  not  break, 
Forever  laden  with  the  woes  of  time ! 
114 


HALLOWELL  BELLS. 

THE  warm  winds  sweep   from   the   south   to 
night, 

The  breath  of  the  springtime  fills  the  air  ; 
Of  odorous  firs  on  the  wooded  height, 

Of  burning  boughs  in  the  gardens  bare. 

Up  the  river's  bank,  o'er  the  grassy  dells, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  with  a  sad  refrain, 

There  cometh  the  music  of  distant  bells,  — 
"  To-morrow,"  they  say,  "  't  will  rain,  't  will 
rain !  " 

O  grass-grown  dells,  ye  are  newly  green, 
O  bells,  ye  are  far  and  faintly  sweet, 

But  I  think  of  a  strip  of  sod  between 

Two  violet  banks,  while  the  winds  repeat 

Over  and  over  the  strain  they  bring, 

The  rhythmic  legend  of  olden  years  ; 
"  When  ye  hear  the  bells  of  Hallowell  ring, 
'T  will  rain  !  "   and  my  eyes  are  filled  with 
tears. 

"5 


n  6  Hallowell  Bells 

O  Hallowell  bells  !  we  need  not  stay 

To  ask  of  the  morrow,  "  Foul  or  bright  ? " 

Our  faint  hearts  sink  with  the  dying  day  ; 
The  clouds  grow  heavy !     It  rains  to-night ! 


BE  MERCIFUL  TO   ME. 

MY  lady  lingers  at  her  shrine 

On  bended  knee,  on  bended  knee ; 
I  hear  her  pray,  "  O  Christ  divine, 
For  devious,  wandering  ways  of  mine, 
Be  merciful  to  me  ! " 

I  see  her  fold,  childlike  and  fair, 

Her  stainless  hands,  her  stainless  hands, 
And  ask  that  they  be  cleansed  to  wear 
The  signet-seal  God's  children  bear, 
At  his  commands. 

I  hear  her  plead  with  eyelids  wet, 

"O  Heart  of  all,  O  Heart  of  all  1 
For  sin  that  doth  our  souls  beset, 
Wilt  thou  in  thy  great  love  not  let 
Forgiveness  fall ! " 

I  should  not  dare,  O  Saints  most  sweet, 
To  lift  my  eyes,  to  lift  my  eyes, 
117 


Be  Merciful  to  Me 

At  her  pure  shrine,  nor  hold  it  meet 
To  kneel  where  she  hath  led  my  feet 
In  mute  surprise. 

But  if  there  need  be  pardoning  grace 

For  such  as  she,  for  such  as  she, 
Oh,  when  thou  bendest  low  thy  face, 
Dear  Christ,  from  out  the  holy  place, 
Be  merciful  to  me  J 


CHRISTMAS   ROSES. 

WHEN  the  slow  dying  year  in  silence  reposes, 
Close  to  his  chilly  heart,  under  the  snow, 

Nestle  the  flowers  we  call  Christmas  roses, 
Born  of  the  midwinter's  passionate  throe. 

Up   on  the   mountain  -  side,   midst   the  dead 

grasses, 

Low  at  the  feet  of  the  firs  in  the  vale, 
Kissed  by  the  winds  from  the  sunny  south 

passes, 

Blown  by  the  breath  of  the  fierce  northern 
gale, 

Ever  thou  springest  in  magical  splendor, 
O  miracle-blossom,  perfect  and  pure ; 

Daring  thy  destiny,  brave  and  yet  tender, 
Strong  to  resist  and  as  strong  to  allure. 

And  thou  art  a  Christmas  rose,  O  my  white 

flower ! 
Cold  is  the  outer  world  !    Whence  dost  thou 

bring 

119 


i2o  Christmas  Roses 

Warmth  that   is   richer   than   summer's    rare 

dower, 

Airs    that    are    sweeter  than   perfumes   of 
spring  ? 

How  is  the  smile  born  of  dearth  and  of  sorrow  ? 
Whence  has  life's  blessedness  wrought  out 

its  claim  ? 

I  gaze  in  thy  glad  eyes  to-day,  yea,  to-morrow, 
And  read  there  thine   answer  forever   the 
same. 

Keep,  then,   the   nosegay   of   fair    Christmas 

posies, 
Plucked  from  the  breast  of  the  midwinter 

snows ; 
Life  has  no  secret  but  nature  discloses  ; 

Mine  is  the  lesson,  sweet ;  thine  is  the  rose  ! 


THE   WORLD'S   VERDICT. 

AT  youth's  glad  morn,  when  o'er  the  shining 

plain 

No  shadows  fell  to  dim  life's  roseate  glow, 
Toying  with  grief,  the  singer  feigned  woe, 
And  sang  to  men  a  melancholy  strain. 
So  merry  maskers,  for  sweet  pity's  sake, 
Paused  in  the  revel  and  let  fall  a  tear ; 
Aghast  they  stood  while  passed  the  phantom 

bier, 

And  cried,   "  Oh,  list !   some  lone,  sad  heart 
doth  break !  " 

When  sorrows  came,  not  softly  one  by  one, 
As  shades  at  twilight  on  a  day  serene, 
But  tempest-tost  with  not  a  ray  between 

The  drifts  of  darkness  deepening  into  night ; 

When  from  the  singer's  soul,  by  torture  wrung, 
Escaped  in  accents  keen  one  bitter  wail, 
The  kind  world  mused,  and  said  :  "  A  plain 
tive  tale ! 

And  yet,  good  masters,  is  it  not  o'ersung  ? " 

121 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

SUBSTANTIAL  and  square  and  roomy, 
It  stands  on  the  hillside  green, 

And  the  giant  elm-trees  guard  it, 
While  sifting  down  between 

The  woof  of  their  netted  branches, 

The  sunbeams  flit  and  fall, 
Or  the  drift  of  the  tangled  shadows 

Tenderly  drapes  the  wall. 

'T  is  the  old  familiar  homestead ; 

Its  doors  stand  open  wide  ; 
One  looks  to  the  light  of  morning 

And  one  to  the  sunset  side  ; 

But  cometh  the  guest  from  the  eastward, 
Or  cometh  he  from  the  west, 

The  broad  hall  gives  its  welcome, 
Its  welcome  and  its  rest. 

The  farmer  sits  at  the  threshold, 
In  the  prime  of  his  manhood  still ; 

122 


The  Old  Homestead 

He  has  wrestled  with  toil,  and  conquered 
By  the  might  of  his  hand  and  will. 

He  looks  abroad  o'er  the  valleys 
Where  the  tawny  cattle  graze  ; 

On  the  hay-fields  green  for  the  mowing  ; 
And  thinks  of  the  olden  days, 


When  the  pastures  were  rough  with  stubble, 

Lichen  and  stalk  and  stone  ; 
When  the  meadow-lands  were  but  marshes 

With  worthless  weeds  o'ergrown. 

Now  broad  are  the  fertile  acres, 

And  deep  is  the  clover-bloom  ; 
And  the  great  barns  wait  for  its  coming 

To  sweeten  their  silent  gloom. 

And  away  to  the  south  are  the  orchards 

By  dew  and  the  sunshine  fed, 
Till  the  apples  grow  round  and  mellow, 

Russet  and  gold  and  red  ; 

Red-ripe  and  russet  and  golden, 

They  fall  in  the  grasses  fair, 
And  the  sound  of  their  monotone  music 

Throbs  on  the  exquisite  air. 


124  The  Old  Homestead 

And  sweeping  afar  are  the  grain-fields 
Wind-tossed  into  silvery  spray, 

And  circled  by  woodland  and  forest, 
Sombre  and  old  and  gray. 

While  beyond  it  all  is  the  picture, 
•   Burned  deep  in  the  sunset  dyes, 
The  shores  in  the  purpling  distance, 
Close  in  whose  shadow  lies  — 

The  stretch  of  beautiful  water, 
A  molten  shimmering  plain, 

The  lake  —  but  one  of  the  thousand 
That  mirror  the  hills  of  Maine  ! 

What  wonder  the  eyes  of  the  farmer 
Grow  dim  with  the  trace  of  tears ! 

Here  is  bread  for  his  children's  children, 
And  warmth  on  his  hearth  for  years. 

Here  is  richness  and  health  and  beauty, 
Blessings  that  never  shall  cease  j 

Within  and  without  abideth 
The  plenteousness  of  peace. 

O  State  beloved  of  the  Pine  Tree, 
We  pledge  thee  our  troth  again ! 


The  Old  Homestead  125 

JT  is  the  struggle  with  thy  stern  nature 
That  makes  us  women  and  men. 

The  olden  paradox  brightens, 

Thy  barrenness  is  our  health  j 
Thy  granite  heart  is  our  glory ; 

Thy  poverty  is  our  wealth. 

Dip  low  the  old-time  well-sweep, 
Hallowed  with  sun  and  with  rain. 

Let  us  drink,  with  lips  that  are  loyal, 
One  toast :  To  the  homes  of  Maine ! 


AVE  ET  VALE.1 

SHRINED  in  our  hearts,  forever  fair,  there  stands 
A  pillared  temple  rising  to  the  sun  ; 

Not  grander  were  the  courts  of  Eastern  lands, 
Not  prouder  was  the  peerless  Parthenon. 

Here  open  vistas  led  through  all  the  earth, 
Here  Knowledge  sat  enthroned  with  starry 

crown ; 

Here  all  the  glorious  dreams  of  youth  had  birth  ; 
Here   let  the  heavens  their  solemn  secrets 
down. 

O  happy  temple  on  the  sloping  hill, 
We  hear  afar  thy  softly  ringing  bell, 

And  send,  in  answer,  words  that   throb   and 

thrill,  — 
Ave  et  vale  !  Greeting  and  farewell ! 

1  Written  on  the  remodeling  of  the  old  Hallowell 
Academy,  founded  in  1791. 

126 


A-ve  et  Vale  727 

Farewell !  unto  the  old  familiar  gates, 

The  stately  columns  and  the  halls  of  yore  ; 

Hail !  to  the  newly  risen  fane  that  waits 
With  all  the  future  beckoning  at  the  door. 

Hail !  to  the  tread  of  countless  eager  feet 
That  come  and  go  the  symphony  to  swell ; 

Hail  and  farewell !  unto  the  phantoms  sweet, 
That  haunt  thy  shades,  beloved  Hallowell. 

Fair,  olden  city,  on  the  river's  shore, 

Thou  through  a  measured  century  hast  kept 

The  grand  inheritance  our  fathers  bore, 

When   to   thy  wilds   across  the   seas   they 
swept. 

And  prized  with  liberty  of  life  and  faith, 

Thy  honored  schools  their  proud  traditions 

tell, 
Long  mayst  thou  hear  the  echoing  strain  that 

saith : 
Ave  et  vale  /    Greeting  and  farewell ! 


MIGNON. 

O  WONDROUS  Mignon  !  thou  who  never  wert, 
Yet  strangely  art,  and  evermore  shalt  be, 

While  throbs  the  deep,  inevitable  hurt 
That  links  thy  young  soul  with  humanity ! 

We  know  thy  witching,  half-repellent  grace 
That  ever  lures  and  never  satisfies ; 

The  weird,  elusive  beauty  of  thy  face, 
The  nameless  charm  within  thy  tender  eyes. 

Only  the  child  of  genius  and  of  art, 

The  rare  creation  of  the  master's  brain  ! 

Yet  still  in  life  thou  hast  a  living  part ; 

A  crownless  queen,  thou  rulest  thy  domain. 

From   out  the  happy  Southlands   thou  didst 

come, 
Glad  as  the  sun — gay  child  of  want  and 

woe  — 

With  song  and  music,  until  smitten  dumb 
By  love's  supreme,  unconquerable  throe. 
128 


Mignon  129 

Then  mute,  unselfish,  passionately  grand, 
Thy  woman's  soul  o'erleaped  its  worthless 

aim; 
Thy  love  and   longing  spread  through  every 

land  ; 

Thou   gav'st    to   hopeless,   hapless    love   a 
name. 

Mignon !  The  birds,  the  flowers,  the  soft  winds 

call; 
We  hear  thy  step  while  shine  the  stars  o'er- 

head; 

Mignon  !  the  shadows  of  the  Northland  fall ; 
Hushed  is  the  music,  and  the  dancer  —  dead  ! 

O  love's  undying,  unrequited  breath  ! 

Thou  wert  called  "Mignon"  in  the  Poet's 

lore  j 
O  longing  infinite,  e'en  after  death ! 

Thou  still  art  "  Mignon  "  through  the  ever 
more. 


BECALMED. 
I. 

"  LISTEN  ! "  he  said,  "  the  bells  are  ringing, 

Bells  of  the  city  under  the  sea  ! 
Sit  in  the  silence  !     Ocean  is  bringing 

A  hint  of  its  awful  mystery. 
Have  ye  not  heard  of  the  sunken  city 

Down  in  the  underland  fathoms  below  ? 
Over  its  towers  the  sea-weed  is  waving, 

Dank  in  its  streets  the  mosses  grow. 
Sprites  of  the  water-realm  fair  and  immortal 

Under  its  sea-green  arches  sing  — 
Listen  !  "  he  said  ;  "  the  bells  are  ringing  ! 

Only  the  mermen  see  them  swing." 

And  the  good  ship  lay  becalmed  on  the  ocean ; 

Lazily  swung  each  canvas  fold  j 
All  the  sky  was  a  golden  glory, 

All  the  sea  was  shimmering  gold. 
Ah  !  the  dreamy,  tremulous  motion  ! 

The  long  waves  come  and  the  long  waves 

go- 

130 


Becalmed  131 

Ah !  the  holy  calm  of  the  night-watch 

After  the  sunset's  ambient  glow ! 
The    stars   look   down   from  the  great   deep 

heavens  ; 
And  the  weather-bronzed  sailor  whispering 

tells 

His  strange,  weird  tale  of  the  sunken  city ; 
And  lists  for  the  sound  of  the  phantom  bells. 

II. 

That,  my  lad,  was  in  days  of  the  bygone, 

Dead  in  the  past  ere  my  locks  were  white, 
Or  my  eyes  were  dim  with  a  life-long  looking 

Unto  the  sunset's  welcome  light. 
Peacefully  now  the  white-tipped  billows 

Hush  the  sound  of  their  angry  strife ; 
Patient,  I  wait  the  call  of  the  night-watch, 

Wait,  becalmed,  on  the  sea  of  life. 
Let  me  gaze  o'er  the  storm-scarred  railing 

Into  the  blue  of  the  soundless  deep  ! 
Where  is  my  white  sea-lily  blooming  ? 

Answer,  beloved,  from  thy  silent  sleep ! 

Is  thy  moss-bed  soft  in  the  sea-dells  dreamy  ? 

Do  golden  curls  with  the  sea-weed  twine  ? 
Canst  thou  gaze  afar  through  the  pale  green 
twilight, 


132  Becalmed 

Lit  by  the  silver  star-flower's  shine  ? 
Dost  thou  catch  the  gleam  of  my  life's  last 
sunset, 

Purple  and  amber,  crimson  and  gold  ? 
Canst  thou  lift  the  clasp  of  the  heavenly  portal 

Over  the  curtain's  shadowy  fold  ? 
God's   stars  look  down  from  the  great  deep 
heavens  ; 

They  sing  together  again  for  joy  — 
What  do  I  hear  as  I  sit  in  the  silence  ? 

The  bells  of  a  sunken  city,  boy  ! 


WILL   IT   BE  THUS? 

How  oft,  escaping  from  some  troubled  dream, 
With  stifled  sob  and  eyelids  strangely  wet, 

We  hail  with  joy  the  morn's  assuring  gleam, 
And  smile  and  quite  forget ! 

Will  it  be  thus  when  waking  after  death, 

The  horror  fades  that  we  had  known  ere- 
while  ? 

When  all  life's  struggle  ends  in  one  glad  breath, 
Shall  we  forget  and  smile  ? 


NOCTURNE. 

BLUE-GRAY  the  sea, 

Ink-blue  the  sky, 

Above  one  glimmering  star : 

And  the  sullen  surge, 

In  a  measured  dirge, 

Thunders  across  the  bar. 

A  sea-gull's  cry, 
From  far,  from  high, 
Falls  like  a  dying  wail ; 
While  the  beacon-track 
Of  the  star  burns  black, 
In  the  wake  of  a  lurid  sail. 

What  stroke  ?    What  bell  ? 

No  soul  can  tell, 

For  the  dread  and  the  horror  born 

Of  the  clamorous  heart  of  the  throbbing  deep ; 

But  its  mighty  pulses  rhythm  keep, 

And  the  ship  rides  safe  at  morn ! 


NOVEMBER  SUNSHINE. 

FROM   the   steel-gray  North,   the   chill   winds 
blow; 

Withered  and  sere  the  leaves  are  lying, 
Torn  from  the  birch-tree's  rustling  cloak, 
The  purpling  boughs  of  the  sombre  oak, 

And  the  scarlet  maples,  dying,  dying. 

Prithee,  O  maiden,  come  out  to  me  ! 

Beyond  the  clouds  so  dull  and  leaden, 
The  west  grows  warm  with  a  golden  tinge, 
Flashes  and  gleams  through  the  jagged  fringe, 

Where  the  sunset  ashes  redden,  redden. 

So   breathe   but   a  breath   from  thy  fragrant 
lips, 

Step  but  a  foot  on  the  sodden  grasses, 
Give  but  a  glance  from  thy  girlish  eyes, 
And  out  of  these  chill,  autumnal  skies 

The  gruesome  shadow  passes,  passes. 


136  November  Sunshine 

Could  I  but  keep  thee  so  young,  so  fair, 

Know  that  thy  smile  would  vanish  never, 
There  were  no  winter,  nor  wind,  nor  woe, 
Dearth  of  flowers,  nor  blight  of  snow, 
But  life  in  the  Summer-lands  forever. 


ONCE  AND  AGAIN. 
I. 

OH  !  once  when  our  love  was  new, 

Do  you  remember,  my  own, 
How  we  swung  on  a  mountain  lakelet  blue, 

'Mid  the  forest  still  and  lone, 
While  the  mirrored  sky  went  drifting  by, 

Through  realms  celestial  blown  ? 

Swung  dreamily  to  and  fro, 
As  the  shimmering  waters  curled 

Around  our  prow  and  the  heavens  hung  low, 
And  the  hills  shut  out  the  world  ?  — 

O  world,  thou  wert  far  away  that  day, 
And  our  untried  sails  were  furled. 

II. 

Be  still,  O  passionate  heart, 

Whilst  we  number  the  days  since  then  ! 
Come,  Friend  of  my  life,  once  more  apart 

From  the  clamorous  ways  of  men  ! 


/  38  Once  and  Again 

As  we  count  the  years  through  our  smiles  and 

tears, 
Let  us  drift  with  the  waves  again  ! 

For  the  mountain  lakes  stand  high 

In  the  land  where  our  souls  have  been ; 

We  float  where  the  gates  of  heaven  are  nigh, 
Where  the  world  may  not  come  in ; 

And  I  dream  of  no  greater  bliss  than  this  — 
Save  that  which  we  die  to  win ! 


ATTAINMENT. 

To  the  north,  the  stars ;  to  the  south,  the  stars  ; 

above  heaven's  vaulted  ring ; 
And  from  east  to  west,  with  unerring  quest,  the 

constellations  swing. 
I   see  the   endless,  shining  track,  where    the 

Chariot  rolls  afar  \ 
Where  Perseus  guards,  with  his  flaming  sword, 

the  gates  of  the  Polar  Star. 

And  ever  the  mighty  Hercules,  with  an  arm  up 
lifted,  kneels, 

As  round  in  his  glittering,  sinuous  course,  the 
writhing  Serpent  reels ; 

And  the  luminous  Virgin  slowly  glides,  her 
white  wings  folded  fast, 

Till  the  burning  heart  of  the  Scorpion  hides 
with  its  baleful  light  outcast. 

The  clamor  of  earth  is  hushed ;  no  breath 
sweeps  in  from  the  misty  seas ; 


140  Attainment 

The  leaves  hang  mute  in  the  lofty  tower,  above 

the  clambering  trees ; 
Beneath,  from  the  oriole's  lonely  nest,  no  glad, 

or  dolorous  note  ; 
But  perfumes  faint,  with  a  vague  unrest,  through 

the  open  arches  float. 

I  gaze  in  awe  at  the  blazing  dome  where  the 
throes  of  time  have  birth, 

And  the  nightly  Passion  Play  unfolds  o'er  the 
unresponsive  earth ; 

And  yet  I  feel  the  sentient  thrill  of  life  through 
the  vastness  whirled ; 

The  onward,  sure,  resistless  force,  of  the  ever- 
circling  world. 

The   hidden   pulse   of   humanity  is  palpitant, 

strong  and  deep, 
Though  night  and  death,  with  their  semblant 

charms,  the  senses  lull  in  sleep  \ 
And  I  mark  the  space  from  star  to  star  by  the 

breadth  of  a  finite  span  ; 
I  measure   the  grasp  of  the  Infinite  by  the 

touch  divine  in  man  ; 


Attainment  141 

And  know  that  the  spirit's  mysteries  are  solved 

in  each  human  soul ; 
And  the  beauty  of  perfectness  must  be  its  crown 

at  the  final  goal ; 
So  long  as  the  marvelous  heavens  above  bend 

over  an  earthly  sod, 
And  the  immanent  heart  of  the  universe  is  one 

with  the  Soul  of  God. 


14  DAY  USE 


RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

•        ]7Dec-&9-S 



REC'D  L.D 

DEC  3  -1959 

"HSUfSAS              "-SiSga- 

U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


YC159B21 


359312 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


